Bitter Oranges
by John Douglas
Summary: MIDSOMER MURDERS - The bodies just keep on piling up in Midsomer Florey. Most of them have been hacked into several pieces with their heads chopped off. Tom Barnaby and Ben Jones are on the case and even Gavin Troy makes a surprise visit from Middlesbrough.
1. Chapter 1

**BITTER ORANGES**

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**or**

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**DEATH BY MISUNDERSTANDING**

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**Disclaimer** : _Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of 'Midsomer Murders' and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit._

**Acknowledgements** : _This story started life as a 'round robin' on a forum which is now sadly defunct. It seemed a pity that nobody could read it any more __―__ so here it is, very largely rewritten (to make it more consistent, and shorter!) by me, I have to admit. But I must thank, first and foremost, Jill, who had some of the best ideas, but also Pieter, Sabine, Sandra and 'Shaun', without whose contributions this story would never have existed! __ Thanks also go to Bo Georgeson for his invaluable advice and support in the draft stage __̶__ don't forget to read his Midsomer Murders fanfic masterpieces on this site as well!_

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**Chapter One**

**Flash Forward**

"What did Bullard say? A beheading?" asked Detective Sergeant Ben Jones as he and Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby pulled up in their unmarked Volvo at the door of the little cottage just outside Midsomer Florey, shortly after nine o'clock the next morning.

"Apparently so," said Tom Barnaby grimly, heaving himself out of the car. He mechanically buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket.

"We haven't had that for a while!" said Ben Jones.

...

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...

**The Present**

Rosemary Bellinger could hear her daughter coming downstairs in her high heels. _Clack, clack, clack, clack._ "Belinda!" she called from the front room of their isolated little cottage.

"Yes, Mum." Belinda appeared at the door. She was wearing a flimsy blouse, mini-skirt and bright red lipstick.

"I hope you're not going out looking like that," said her mother. "In this weather!"

It was early December and the daylight was fading, though it was hardly gone four o'clock.

"Mum, it matters what I look like. In the pub, you know?"

Her mother, who was sitting in her usual armchair by the gas fire with a rug over her knees, clicked her tongue. "I _wish _you would get another job. You could do much better for yourself, you know you could."

"Don't start all that again, Mum." Belinda, who was nineteen and very good-looking, considered herself lucky to have got the job at _The Cock and Trumpet_, even though it was a mile's walk away. A lot of her time, when not serving behind the bar, was spent caring for her somewhat demanding mother, who considered herself to be an invalid, even if not all her ailments had received medical recognition. "Don't forget to take your pills before you go to bed."

"And I do hope that you aren't still seeing that unpleasant young man. You deserve much better."

Belinda sighed. "No, Mum, I'm not seeing him any more," she said with an air of resignation. The truth was that for some time Horatio Potts had not seen _her_, much to Belinda's disappointment. Perhaps, she thought to herself, perhaps he will be there tonight...

"Are the tea-things all ready in the kitchen?" demanded Rosemary Bellinger.

"Yes, Mum, I know you've got Jane Smith coming to tea. Every Sunday at half past four, isn't it?"

"I don't know what I'd do if Jane didn't come to visit me," said Rosemary. "Nobody else comes to see me. Nobody else cares if I'm alive or dead."

"_Mum!_"

"My oldest friend," continued the semi-invalid in a well-rehearsed monologue, "we were at school together. I don't know why she married that dreadful man."

"What's the matter with Andrew Smith?" asked Belinda as if in jest, knowing only too well how the story would go on.

"I didn't like the look of him twenty-five years ago, and thank _goodness _I don't have to see him at all nowadays. I refused to go to their wedding, you know. The trouble with them is that they live in the wrong part of Causton. A terrible neighbourhood, I believe. I've never been to their house, you know. I've seen pictures, but I would never go there myself. It's on the wrong side of the railway line. That's why Jane has to come here_. _And if she didn't come to see me I don't know what would become of me, really I don't. Because I would be completely alone." The old lady – in fact she was in her early forties – seemed to have worked herself into a frenzy of self-pity.

"Well, I must be off," said Belinda, who had turned the light outside the front door on in anticipation of Jane's imminent arrival. "Bye bye, Mum," and she bent down to kiss her mother on the cheek. "Give Jane my love."

"Goodbye, _darling._"

As she closed the door behind her she shivered. There would probably be a frost tonight, she thought.

It was past midnight when Belinda set out for the long walk home from the_ Cock and Trumpet_ where Phil, the landlord, who lived upstairs, was as ever locking up. Belinda had had two large brandies, bought her by James, the cute son of the local millionaire, but that was not enough to compensate for not having worn any sort of coat over her low-cut top and mini mini-skirt. The temperature had dropped to freezing and ice had started to form in the puddles on the narrow pavement-less road that led from the centre of Midsomer Florey towards her little cottage. Sometimes James gave her a lift, but he had left early. And Horatio... no, Horatio had not been there. She thought back to the few weeks when she and Horatio had been an item and smiled at the pleasant memories. Always his place in Causton, never the cottage where her mother kept a disapproving guard against unsuitable young men.

Belinda trod carefully to avoid the slippery ice. James, yes, James was very nice, but not exciting in the way Horatio was. He was rather too clean-cut and polite. Whenever he did give her a lift it always seemed to be out of courtesy and not interest. Belinda wondered what had happened to Horatio. He hardly ever came into the pub now and he had stopped returning her calls. She turned a corner and the light outside the door of her little cottage at last beamed out its usual welcome. She let herself in as quietly as she could so as not to disturb her mother and, having taken off her bright red high heels, tiptoed upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**.**

"What did Bullard say? A beheading?" asked Detective Sergeant Ben Jones as he and Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby pulled up in their unmarked Volvo at the door of the little cottage just outside Midsomer Florey, shortly after nine o'clock the next morning.

"Apparently so," said Tom Barnaby grimly, heaving himself out of the car. He mechanically buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket.

"We haven't had that for a while!" said Ben Jones.

The front door was open, so the two men let themselves in. The door to the left of the narrow hallway was ajar, and Tom could see a dapper little man in a grey suit standing over an armchair, in which sat a good-looking but clearly distressed young lady, who was staring in front of her listlessly.

"Hallo!" said Tom.

The dapper little man came over to meet them. "Doctor Graham Swatham," said he. "I think I should tell you―"

"Where is the body?" asked Ben Jones.

"Upstairs," said the girl in the armchair. "I couldn't wake her."

The doctor turned towards Belinda and then back towards the detectives. He shook his head, but Barnaby and Jones had wasted no time in rushing up the stairs. There were only two rooms, apart from the bathroom, and the door of one was open, showing a small single bedroom with no body in it. They opened the other door. Propped up in bed was a middle-aged woman with greying hair who appeared to be asleep. Tom approached and felt her pulse.

"I thought Bullard said she had been beheaded," said Ben almost indignantly. The lady's head was firmly attached to the rest of her body.

"She is certainly dead," said Tom.

Ben walked over to the window. With a sharp intake of breath he stepped backwards.

"What is it?" asked Tom, looking out himself. What would otherwise have been a neat and tidy paved area just outside the kitchen door was covered in blood and various body parts. Doctor George Bullard, the forensic pathologist of Midsomer Constabulary, clad in a baby blue jump-suit and wearing latex gloves, was bending over the more substantial of the body parts, being the trunk, to which was still attached one arm.

Barnaby and Jones rushed downstairs even faster than they had rushed up and joined George Bullard by going round the side of the cottage.

"You were not wrong," said Tom.

"I'm never wrong," said Bullard, straightening up and arching his back. "A frenzied attack, by the look of it."

"But where is the head?" asked Ben, for all he could see, strewn across the paving-stones, were two legs, one arm and a torso-plus-arm. These parts had been by no means surgically butchered.

"Over there," said George, waving towards the bottom of the garden, where three spikes stood. On two of them were spent firework cartridges, still slightly frosted from the night's low temperature. "The remains of November the Fifth celebrations, I should think," said George. On the central spike was impaled a woman's head. She had shaggy coils of hair, large bulging eyes, sunken cheeks and a mouth open in surprise.

"Not a great beauty," said George critically.

Tom turned his head slightly sideways as if to penetrate her unseeing stare. "She looks like a Gorgon to me," he said. "Time of death, George?"

"The blood has all drained out," said George. "It must have been at least twelve hours ago ― probably more." The coagulated blood had soaked into a large patch of grass under the head, blackening it.

Ben held his hand to his mouth and with his body movements gave every indication that he was about to be sick.

While Bullard, Barnaby and Jones were so employed, another car drew up outside the little cottage and two men, dressed in high-visibility vests and carrying some rather large and heavy-looking cameras entered. "Hello!" called one of them. "We've come to photograph the body."

"―And the head," said the other loudly.

The doctor approached them as fast as he could. "Round the back," he whispered, "_please_."

"What head?" asked Belinda in puzzlement. She seemed to have recovered from her stupor and was walking towards the door of the front room.

"Oh ― sorry, Madam," said the first man and the two of them walked round the side of the cottage to where the various bits of the butchered deceased lay.

Doctor Swatham was not in time to prevent Belinda from running through the kitchen and out onto the paved area. Seeing the two detectives and George Bullard grouped around the Gorgon's head at the bottom of the garden, she screamed loudly. "Oh, no!" she moaned, "not Jane!"

The doctor caught her in his arms and walked her slowly back to the front room. "There, there," he said, "it's very distressing, I know." He sat her back down in the armchair. Going back into the kitchen he said to Tom, who had been summoned by the scream, "She didn't know about _that_. Now I'm afraid I shall have to prescribe a sedative."

"Maybe it should be double strength," said Ben Jones, who, looking slightly green, had followed Tom in.

"Doctor Swatham, I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," said Tom, presenting his warrant card, "and this is Detective Sergeant Jones. We have two suspicious deaths in this cottage to investigate, one of them definitely a murder. Do you know how her mother died?"

Graham Swatham shook his head. "It could have been a heart attack," he said. "Mrs Bellinger was far from well. Her heart could have given out at any time."

"But just at the same time when... " Tom left the sentence unfinished.

"There I cannot help you. Miss Bellinger called me at about eight o'clock this morning because she couldn't wake her mother. As far as I know she never went into the kitchen and never looked outside. I made her a cup of tea as soon as I arrived ― after I had examined the body. The body upstairs, that is. Actually I had to wash up some tea-cups in the kitchen. But as I was boiling the kettle I couldn't help noticing... well, you've seen it yourself."

"Indeed I have, sir."

"But I thought it best to keep it from Miss Bellinger for as long as possible ― she's in a state of shock, you know. So I asked the police to go round the _side _of the house."

"Very thoughtful, sir," said Tom.

"I realise that Miss Bellinger is in shock," said Ben, "but we really should ask her a few questions ― if she's up to it."

"Do be gentle with her," said the doctor, feeling unable to prevent the police from doing their duty.

While Ben Jones talked to Belinda Bellinger, Tom walked upstairs and examined the dead lady's bedside table, on which were seven small plastic bottles of prescribed tablets, as well as several cartons of branded medicines and a collection of creams and lotions. He leaned out of the window and called the attention of the forensic photographers, who had been taking pictures of the Gorgon's head from every conceivable angle.

"Miss Bellinger―"

"Belinda," said Belinda, between sharp intakes of breath.

"Well … Belinda … I really am most sorry for your loss," said Ben Jones.

Belinda nodded, gasping.

"I think you mentioned a certain … Jane."

Belinda nodded again. Having summoned up a reserve of breath, she continued, "Jane Smith. She was my mother's oldest friend. They were at school together. Jane always visited my mother every Sunday at half past four, for tea."

Ben Jones made some notes. "And who else would have known that she did that?"

"Oh, everybody knew." Apart from the slight shaking of her jaw, Belinda had virtually recovered control of her breathing.

"Everybody...?" questioned Ben. "Anyone in particular?"

Belinda shook her head. "It was common knowledge in the village. But there's nobody in particular ― she hardly went out, you see. She was an invalid." She leaned across from the armchair in which she had been placed by Dr Swatham and pulled a Kleenex tissue from its box on a side-table.

"And … you were not here when Jane Smith visited your mother yesterday?"

"Oh, no. I went out just before she arrived. I work at the _Cock and Trumpet_, in the middle of Midsomer Florey."

"And did you notice anything when you got home?"

Belinda shook her head. "It was after midnight. I went straight to bed."

"So there was no sign of a break-in, or anything like that?"

"No, there wasn't." Belinda dabbed her eyes, which had started to fill with tears, with the Kleenex tissue.

"Do you happen to know where Jane Smith lived?" went on Ben.

Belinda shook her head again. "Jane lived with her husband, Andrew, in Causton. My mother said it was a dreadful place, but that she had never been there, and nor have I. I don't know the address."

"Perhaps in your mother's address book...?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I can find it," said Belinda.

Ben handed her a card. "When you do, please phone me, Belinda," he said.

"I really think―" suggested Dr Swatham, who had re-entered the room.

"Yes, of course," said Ben, getting up. "Miss Bellinger, is there anybody you could stay with for a day or two, while we... clean up?"

Belinda thought for a moment and then said reluctantly, "No. No, there's nobody. There _was _somebody, a while ago, but ― no. I'll have to stay here."

"I'm afraid the patio area and the garden will all be out of bounds for the time being," said Ben.

Belinda nodded with a wan smile, and Ben noticed for the first time how attractively vulnerable she looked, with her pale round face and long curving eye-lashes, which she was using at this moment to try to hold back the tears.

Ben met Tom Barnaby in the hall. "She works in the _Cock and Trumpet _in Midsomer Florey," explained Ben, "and the butchered woman is Jane Smith, who lived in Causton. She will let us know as soon as she finds out the address. Her husband's name is Andrew."

"Right, you see what you can discover from the the telephone people. It might be worth running a criminal record check on Andrew Smith too, just in case. And it'd be odd if he didn't report her as missing. You do that while I go to the _Cock and Trumpet._ I'll see you back at the station. Oh, and, Doctor―", as Graham Swatham was hovering by the doorway, "could you print out a list of all the prescribed medicines that Mrs Bellinger was taking?"

"Will do," said Dr Swatham, none too cheerfully.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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The young man sitting on the bus stop bench in the centre of Causton shifted uneasily. He had a back-pack which he had dumped on the ground beside him. His clothes were dishevelled and he had a haunted look, which was far from his usual countenance. He ruefully rubbed his backside, which was sore from having been jolted about on a National Express coach for six and a half hours and then a local bus from Oxford. He thought of his own car, or rather, the police car that he had until recently driven, now undergoing major repairs in a garage in Middlesbrough. What was he doing here? He didn't know why exactly, but he _had _to see Tom Barnaby. If anybody understood him it was his old boss. It wouldn't do to go to his home to see him, that would be too informal, to arrive there unannounced.

Having screwed up his courage, Gavin Troy picked up his back-pack and walked slowly in the direction of the police station.

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Phil Bryce was busily polishing the glasses at the _Cock and Trumpet._ He had only just opened for the midday shift and the pub was empty apart from a little old man in a cloth cap in the corner who was absorbed in his pint of mild and bitter.

Barnaby drew up outside and walked in briskly.

"What'll it be, sir?" Phil hardly looked up.

"I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby of Causton CID and I am investigating two suspicious deaths in Midsomer Florey."

Phil barely paused in his polishing. "Two suspicious deaths, you say?" The little old man in the corner hiccuped loudly.

"I believe Belinda Bellinger works for you?"

"In the evenings she does ― well, when she's not flirting with the customers. Who is it that's dead?"

"For one, her mother."

Phil whistled softly. "Did you hear that, Arthur? Rosemary Bellinger has copped it."

"_A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,_" remarked Arthur enigmatically.

A prim, severe-looking woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a purple pill-box hat on her head, suddenly burst into the pub.

"Phil, have you got the axe?" The severe-looking woman followed Phil's glance and, noticing Barnaby for the first time, asked abruptly "And who are you?"

Barnaby went through his usual routine, adding "And who are you?"

"My name is Phyllis Potts. I run the nursery in Primrose Lane."

"Potty Potts," muttered Arthur into his beer just audibly.

"So, you are good with children, are you, Mrs Potts?" Barnaby thought it seemed unlikely.

"No, not children, silly. Plants and trees. We specialise in citrus fruit."

"Oranges and lemons, that sort of thing?"

"_Say the bells of St. Clement's,_" chanted Arthur to himself.

"Oranges, lemons, tangerines, clementines ― we grow them under glass in a heated environment. With careful control of light and heat, we can bring on almost anything to fruit whenever we like. All totally organic, of course. We sell the fruit as well."

"I think you mentioned an axe?"

"Ah," Mrs Potts suddenly remembered, "I lent it to Mr Bryce last week. We have to do quite a lot of chopping up of dead wood. And when the branches get too big―"

"Mr Bryce, why did you borrow this axe?" Barnaby cut Mrs Potts short.

"A tree came down in the storm last Thursday night. We had to clear it up from the lane. I'll go and get it, Phyllis," and he disappeared from view.

"Off with her head!" exclaimed Arthur.

Mrs Potts ignored this remark and turned to Barnaby again. "If you would like a guided tour of the nursery I'd be only too happy to oblige," she said. "The heating and watering system is the most modern in Europe." She lowered her voice. "It comes from Germany, you know."

"Thank you, that would be most … interesting."

"That's funny," said Phil Bryce, who had re-appeared. "I can't find that axe anywhere."

"Oh well ― I expect it will turn up," said Mrs Potts and walked out of the pub as quickly as she had walked in.

"Where did you keep this axe, Mr Bryce?" asked Tom Barnaby.

"In the tool-shed outside ― that's where I put it. But it's gone."

"And is the tool-shed normally locked?"

"Oh no, no need for that round here," said Phil.

"And yet," said Tom, "it has now disappeared."

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...

Gavin Troy, who now felt more of an outsider then ever, had suffered the jibes of the officer on duty in reception with uncharacteristic fortitude. "Oh, he won't be back for hours yet," the duty officer had said. "A beheading, so I've heard, in Midsomer Florey. And another old girl's gone and kicked the bucket too. What's the matter with Middlesbrough, eh? Haven't you got any criminals to catch up North?" Gavin had bitten his lip and thought '_So they're still at it, then._'

It was nearly three o'clock when Tom Barnaby pulled into his usual parking place. His face reflected the quiet fury he felt at having discovered so little of any importance in Midsomer Florey, and he stalked quickly through reception to the security door, where he was entering his pin code when he noticed the unusually patient young man on a bench. "_Troy!_" he said, as first recognition and then delight spread across his features.

Troy jumped up, his downcast appearance replaced in an instant with positive pleasure. "Sir... Tom...", a shy smirk ran across the younger man's face.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be chasing '_real villains_'?" With his right arm Tom invited Gavin to follow him into his office. Troy felt foolish for having once coined the phrase in an email to Barnaby after one pint too many at a Middlesbrough pub, and he remembered all too vividly what Barnaby's reaction had been. Blushing, he murmured a low "Sorry," and heaved a sigh. _This was not going to be easy._

"So what is it that brings you back into our rural county?" The DCI paused, assessing the younger man, and changed the subject by adding "How are you? How's the job?" He could see that the inspector had lost weight. He seemed tired, worried and nervous. Troy had sat down in an office chair and stared at his old boss. He knew that there was no point in hiding anything from Barnaby.

"I ― er, I'm fine really," he lied and started picking at his cuticles. "Job's great. It's..." He broke off and sighed again. "It's a nightmare. I shouldn't have left here."

Barnaby nodded. He had guessed as much from the more recent emails he had received from Middlesbrough. "What you need, Troy, is a spot of good home cooking. It's stew tonight, I believe. Why don't you join us?"

"Oh, thank you, sir," said Gavin, with his old smile. "Won't Mrs B mind?"

"She'll be delighted to see you!" Looking more closely at him, Tom wondered what Joyce would make of Troy in his present condition. _He almost looks like a tramp_, he thought, noticing the dirty coat and unkempt hair. "Where's your motor?"

Gavin looked down, suddenly ashamed. "It's ― off the road, sir. I got here by bus."

"By _bus_?" Tom sounded incredulous.

"By coach and bus. You see, a car ran into me in Middlesbrough."

"So it wasn't your fault, then?" Tom eyed him shrewdly.

"Not exactly, sir. But I had just driven into the back of a stationary bus. Oh, no-one was hurt, sir ― only cuts and bruises. Well, it had a few wrinklies in it at the time and they were standing up, waiting to get off." He looked very sheepish. "There's an investigation going on and ― the fact is I've been suspended, sir. Only temporarily, of course," he added hastily, managing a forced laugh.

Barnaby just said "Oh, _Troy_!" and gazed at him with a mixture of compassion and irritation.

"Sorry, sir." Gavin Troy now looked as though he might burst into tears.

Tom looked at his watch. "Troy, I've got a few things to do here before I can call it a day. Would you mind having a drink or two in the pub around the corner and calling back at, say, six o'clock?" In his present state Tom thought it unwise to involve his former sergeant in the matter at hand. "I would join you, but..."

"I understand, sir." He was being dismissed, but Gavin knew that it was for purely professional reasons.

"By the way, where are you staying tonight?"

Gavin, who had started towards the door, stopped dead and half-turned towards Barnaby. "I ― haven't booked in anywhere yet," he said.

Tom Barnaby got up and, approaching Gavin, put an arm across his shoulder. "Then stay with us. You can have Cully's old room!"

"Oh! Thank you very much, sir! But what about―"

"Don't worry about Joyce. She's always asking after you. And you're here on holiday as far as she's concerned. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Gavin with a sense of great relief, and left the station a lot happier than when he had walked into it.

Tom Barnaby remained standing for a moment or two, shaking his head every now and again. "Oh, Troy, Troy, Troy!" he said to himself. Then he opened the door that led into the general CID office and called out, "Jones! Any luck with Andrew Smith?"

"There are forty-eight Smiths in Causton and six of them have a first name that is listed as beginning with A, none of them Andrew. And he has no criminal record. And no, he hasn't reported his wife as missing."

...

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...

Joyce Barnaby had been pre-advised that her husband was bringing home a guest for supper and to make sure that the bed in Cully's old room was made up, but she had no idea who the mystery guest might be. It was with undisguised pleasure that she opened the door and exclaimed "_Gavin_! How good to _see _you!"

"It's good to see you too, Mrs B― Joyce," said Gavin, standing in the doorway with his shoulder-bag in his hand.

"Are you here for long?" asked Joyce.

"No ― no, only a day or two," said Gavin quickly.

"Let me show you to your room."

While Joyce showed her unexpected guest his quarters Tom went through to the living-room and poured himself a large brandy. Presently Joyce came downstairs again, having left Gavin to unpack his toothbrush. "Is he alright?" she asked urgently.

"I don't know," said Tom, taking a large draught. "But whatever it is, it will be put right by a short rest with us."

There were a lot more questions that Joyce wanted to ask about the former sergeant's sudden appearance, but instead she said with her winning smile, "How was your day, Tom?"

"Oh, the usual sort of thing," said Barnaby, warmed by the brandy. "Dead bodies, severed heads and so on."

Joyce made a face.

"I've been to the _Cock and Trumpet_ in Midsomer Florey, where I met a certain Phyllis Potts" (he enunciated carefully).

"You know Phyllis Potts?" Joyce's eyes were wide open.

"I don't _know _her, Joyce. Do you?"

"She's _famous _in the Women's Institute. I haven't ever actually met her but... of course you hardly ever have time to read the _Causton Echo _cookery page."

"No. I don't."

"Oh, Tom, if you have to interview her again―"

"I didn't interview her. I just spoke to her. Or rather, she spoke to me. She offered to give me a guided tour of her nursery."

"How marvellous!" Joyce's eyes positively glistened with excitement. "That would be the perfect place to buy some Seville oranges! And some lemons. It's about time I made some more marmalade."

"If I remember correctly, the last time you made marmalade was when Cully was at home and we all had diarrhoea for a week."

"But this is a Gordon Ramsay recipe. It can't go wrong. Oh Tom, let's go there tomorrow."

"If I visit Phyllis Potts' nursery," said Tom carefully, "it will not be because I want to buy any oranges."

Their deliberation was cut short by the re-appearance of Troy, whose hair at least looked a little tidier, Tom thought. Joyce hurried over to the dining table, where she lit a couple of red candles in silver candlesticks. "This is a celebration!" she said. Gavin and Tom sat down while Joyce extracted a casserole dish from the oven. The flickering light of the candles made Troy's face look more haunted than ever.

"_Beef Bourgignon!_" said Joyce, putting the casserole dish down triumphantly.

During the meal, which Troy declared was delicious, Joyce asked a great many questions about life in Middlesbrough. Troy made it sound as if his career was blooming and he was catching a great many criminals, which was far from true. He eagerly accepted at least three glasses of the _Mateus Ros__é _that Joyce insisted on opening, and by half past eleven his eyelids were drooping over his enormous blue eyes.

"Time for bed?" suggested Tom, standing up.

"Oh ― yes, I'm bushed," said Gavin, also getting to his feet. "Mrs Barnaby ― thank you ever so much for a really fantastic meal," and he made his way unsteadily up the stairs to Cully's old room. He had not climbed the final stair when Tom's mobile buzzed in his pocket.

"Barnaby... where?... I'll be right over." He turned to Joyce, who was stony-faced. "The body of a man has been discovered in the grounds of the _Cock and Trumpet_. It seems he was hacked into several pieces. They can't find the head."

"Well, at least they waited until we'd _finished _dinner," said Joyce acidly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**.**

A yawning Detective Sergeant Jones stood stretching his arms and flexing his muscles while he waited for his superior to arrive at the crime scene. _'Another one,' _he thought and shook his head. At least he _had _one. Four uniformed officers were searching the beer garden of the _Cock and Trumpet, _which had been illuminated with mobile flood-lights, and George Bullard, this time dressed in a brilliant white jump-suit, was crouching over the trunk of a man laid out on the lawn.

"Four pieces," he said, "not counting the head. It must be here somewhere."

As Tom arrived he could hear sporadic singing, in a tuneless voice, coming from inside the pub, which he walked through.

"Ah, Mr Bryce," he said, approaching the landlord, who was sitting down behind the bar, "I think we met earlier. Who found the body?"

Phil Bryce indicated the source of the singing. "Arthur McCain," he said. "You won't get much out of him. It was gone closing time when he stumbled back in here babbling about bits of a body on the lawn. Turns out he was right."

"_There were ten green bottles,_" chanted Arthur, who was huddled on a chair in the corner. He looked up with bleary eyes as Tom Barnaby approached.

"Mr McCain," said Barnaby, "When did you leave the pub this evening?"

After a slight pause Arthur touched his nose and said "_This brawl today... this brawl today..._". Unable to continue, he rocked back and forwards with the clearest possible indication of severe intoxication.

"Has he been drinking here all evening?" asked Tom of Phil Bryce.

"That he has," said Phil. "_All _evening. It's the same every evening. Ex- Head of English at Devington School. Wouldn't you just know it?"

"_If one green bottle..._" sang Arthur. "_Bottle... bottle..._".

Tom decided to leave Arthur McCain and Phil Bryce for the moment and stepped out into the brilliantly lit beer garden.

"I can't keep up with you, Tom," said George Bullard, scratching his head.

"Sir!" exclaimed one of the uniformed officers, who had been poking about between the rose bushes at the back of the garden, "here's the head!"

Planted on the top of a low trellis that was designed to support a climbing rose was the head of a youngish man with blond hair and blue eyes, which stared ahead of him. Thick drops of blood still dripped occasionally from his ragged neck, feeding the now dormant roses underneath.

"Can't be so long ago, this one," said George. "I'd give it six hours at the most ― and at least two."

"Do we know who he is?" asked Tom.

"Yes, sir," said Ben Jones, rather proudly. "He had a credit card on him ̶ on _part _of him. His name is Andrew Smith."

"Well done, Jones," said Tom.

"It was tucked into his sock, the one on his right leg, for some reason."

"That, Jones, is what people do when they think that they might be robbed. Though not necessarily beheaded."

"And Belinda called me earlier to say that she has found the address book, but all it has is a telephone number. I tried it, but it's dead."

"Never mind, we can find out from the credit card company now," said Tom.

Arthur McCain had managed to get up and was careening like a ship in distress. He staggered towards the doorway leading to the beer garden, which Tom saw just in time. "_Stay where you are!_" bellowed Tom. "This area is out of bounds. Do you understand, Mr McCain?"

Mr McCain clearly did understand, for he stood still, just inside the pub, or as still as his swaying motion would allow.

"Do you think you could take him away, Inspector?" asked Phil Bryce, who had followed Arthur to the doorway, "Only I really want to clean up now."

"Do you know somebody called Andrew Smith?" asked Tom.

Phil thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Sorry," he said.

Tom considered escorting him to the bottom of the garden to view the head, but decided it would be better to wait until the photographers had done their work. "You may continue to open the pub as usual," said Tom, "but the beer garden remains off limits."

"Not many people want to come outside here in this weather," said Phil, "except to smoke."

"Were there many people in the pub this evening?"

"Oh, about twenty ― twenty at a time, that is, max. People come and go. Except Arthur, of course. He never goes."

"And did you recognise all of them?"

"Let's see now... most of them I did. But there's always a few faces I don't know."

"In answer to your previous question, I will ask Constable Robson to take him home," said Barnaby, which he proceeded to do. With difficulty two police officers managed to get Arthur McCain into the back seat of one of the patrol cars, where he rolled himself up into a ball and started kicking out playfully at the back of the seat in front of him, where PC Robson sat.

"_This brawl today..._" chuckled the inebriated academic.

WPC Bull, who was a woman not to be trifled with, got in the back seat beside Arthur and none too delicately obliged him to sit in a more respectable position. "Take him wherever he wants to go," said Tom, hoping that that would not be Mars. "I'll speak to him tomorrow when he's sobered up. Make sure you give me the address."

...

...

...

It was the smell of freshly-percolated coffee that finally woke Gavin Troy. Where was he? He opened his eyes bit by bit. The wallpaper was unfamiliar. Cully's old room! Suddenly the day before came back to him. He glanced at his watch, which he was still wearing. Eleven o'clock! This bed felt so comfortable and he had slept so deeply that he didn't want to get up. He realised that the thought that Cully used to sleep in this very bed was slightly exciting him. He threw back the duvet and, after an enormous yawn, forced himself upright.

"Good morning, sleepikins," said Joyce from the kitchen when he eventually made his way downstairs.

"I'm sorry, Mrs B, I'm afraid I overslept," he said apologetically.

"I could tell _you needed _that sleep," said Joyce with emphasis. "How are you feeling today?"

"Oh, much better, thanks," said Gavin, and he really meant it. Funny how the soothing effect of Causton and its environs made his problems in Middlesbrough seem less important, he thought. "Has... er, Tom... gone out?"

"Of course!" said Joyce, who was putting away the now clean pots and pans from the night before. "Ages ago."

"Mrs B,―"

"Joyce," said Joyce.

"Joyce," said Gavin, remembering the banter at the station, "do you know anything about this case that he's on at the moment?" Troy's detective instincts had come back to him and he felt that he couldn't carry on doing nothing in his old boss's house.

"I don't know anything about it," said Joyce, "except that it involves a body cut up into several pieces. One or two bodies, I can't remember. He was called out last night, just after you went up to bed."

"And there was a beheading," suggested Troy.

"Yes, well ― you'll have to ask Tom. There's always something gruesome going on."

"Nothing new there then," said Gavin with an impish grin.

...

...

...

"Why can't that witch sell her land to me at a reasonable price?" stormed Sir Hector Ashby-Petherington, pacing up and down the parquet floor of his study.

"Witch witch – I mean, which witch?" stammered his son, who had trouble with certain consonants at the best of times.

"Potty Potts, of course. I've made her four offers ― _four_. But all she wants is her blasted trees," and he hurled a copy of _Country Life _at the fireplace. James visibly flinched.

"She ― she is quite well-known for her fruit trees," he said apologetically.

"Yers ― well, I'm quite well known, too," growled his father, who had sunk into a leather chair behind the over-sized desk. "Well known at the Council. How do you think the Chairman of the Planning Committee got his job?"

"I know that, Daddy, but―"

"Now look, son." Hector took on a conciliatory tone. "Why don't you go and chat her up?"

"Chat her up?" James looked horrified.

"Well, there must be something you can do besides swanning around all day in that Aston Martin I gave you for your birthday."

"I don't see what I can do." James bit his lower lip, trying hard to think of something other than chatting up Phyllis Potts.

"You're always round Midsomer Florey of an evening," said his father suspiciously.

"Oh ― well, you know... I do drop in at the _Cock and Trumpet _from time to time."

"Making eyes at that hussy of a barmaid, I'm sure," Hector sneered. James turned bright red.

"I ― I really must be going," he said, as he couldn't think of anything else to say, and rushed out of the room. Hector picked up the latest letter from Phyllis Potts and, crumpling it into a ball, threw it in the general direction of the previously ejected _Country Life_.

...

...

...

Sorrowfully, Belinda took the old skirts and blouses that her mother used to wear from the wardrobe one by one and folded them mechanically. Still no news as to how her mother died, and as for Jane... Belinda shuddered. The back garden had been cordoned off with police tape and Jane's remains removed, thank goodness. Who could have visited on Sunday evening with such murderous intent? Belinda had no idea and tried not to think about it. She wandered over to the desk that her mother used to write letters at and turned over the papers on it. The signature on one of the more recent letters received caught her eye. She started to read it.

Belinda sat down on her mother's bed, her head swimming. She could not believe it. She read the letter again. After a moment she got up and, going into her own room, went over to the dressing-table and put the letter at the bottom of the old biscuit-tin which she used as a jewellery box. She then looked for the card that Detective Sergeant Jones had given her and picked up her mobile phone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**.**

As Barnaby and Jones approached Blackwater Drive on the outskirts of Causton the front gardens became noticeably less neat and the houses more dilapidated.

"Who would live here?" asked Barnaby.

"The Smiths did, sir," said Jones as they pulled up outside a particularly neglected building. Unmown grass grew in place of a rose-bed and there were discarded cans and fast food containers littering the short path that led to the front door, which was ajar. From outside they could hear a female voice that appeared to be singing a gypsy song in a foreign tongue. The detectives looked at each other and pushed the door open. The singing, which came from upstairs, became more distinct.

"Hello!" called out Tom.

The singing stopped abruptly. "Who's zere?" A short dumpy middle-aged woman descended the stairs to inspect them.

"We are policemen," said Jones loudly and slowly, drawing out pad and pencil. "May I ask your name?"

"_Mar__ía Isabel Concepci__ón Vives de los Higochumbos,_" she said rapidly.

"Er... could you spell that?"

The woman took the pad and pencil and laboriously wrote it out for Jones.

"And ― what do I call you?"

"Isa," she said, adding "I ― cleaning."

"For Mr and Mrs Smith?" Isa nodded.

"I'm afraid that will no longer be necessary," said Barnaby. "Mr and Mrs Smith have been murdered."

"_Murdered?_" Tears began to well up in Isa's large black eyes. "_¡Ay, Santa María!_"and she crossed herself, sitting down on a small wooden chair in the hallway that creaked ominously under her considerable weight.

"How often do ― did ― you work for them?" asked Jones as delicately as he could.

"Two times every week, two hours. I ― cleaning, cleaning," and she crossed herself again. Barnaby had begun walking in and out of the two downstairs rooms, which held cheap, shabby furniture but were spotlessly clean. At the back was a small kitchen that looked too bare to have seen much cooking.

"Jones," he said, returning, "take Isa into the kitchen and give her a cup of tea." Barnaby mounted the stairs. At the top there were three rooms and a bathroom. The doors of two of the rooms were open and Barnaby quickly noted that the beds were made and the chests-of-drawers recently polished. Isa's efforts were also apparent in the bathroom. The third room was locked.

"Isa," he said, calling down the stairs, "do you have the key to this room?"

Isa lumbered out of the kitchen. "No key, no, _señor_. Always lock. I never go zere. Mister Smith say no, no clean zere."

Tom put his shoulder to the door and burst the lock. Isa, looking up from below, crossed herself.

The first thing he noticed was the smell ― a strange, musty smell as if of rotting vegetables. A black roller blind covered the window, so Tom switched on the light. There was a bed, but it was covered in cardboard boxes. Boxes and plastic containers of various sorts were stacked up all over the floor and on every piece of furniture. There were jars full of pills stamped with curious symbols, bags of a yellow ochre powder, and what looked like dried lavender wrapped in cling film, which had also been used to wrap long, slender mushrooms. Tom examined a large recycled ice cream tub full of white powder near the door and was about to dip his finger in to taste it when he remembered an unfortunate incident at Elfrida Molfrey's place in Morton Fendle several years previously.

"Jones!" he shouted downstairs. "Come and look at this!"

Jones left Isa, now balanced precariously on a very small stool in the kitchen, and raced upstairs.

"Is this what I think it is?" asked Barnaby in a low voice.

"Oh, boy!" said Jones. "It sure isn't a pharmacy."

"Call the station and get uniform posted on the door. And get the drugs people round a.s.a.p."

"Yes, sir." Jones pulled out his mobile phone.

"Guv'nor!" An unknown male voice rang out from the hallway. Barnaby appeared at the top of the stairs to see a seedy-looking young man with long hair and acne, wearing a leather jacket, who immediately ran away.

"Jones, after him!" said Tom, while Isa shouted from the kitchen, "Hche no hchere. Hche dead."

Disadvantaged by having to descend the stairs while pocketing his mobile phone, Jones reached the front door at the moment the unknown visitor leapt over the hedge like an Olympic hurdler. There was no sign of him from the pavement, but a tall-sided unmarked white van was driving away at high speed. It turned the corner into the main road at just such an angle that no number-plate could be seen by Ben or by Tom, who had puffed up behind him, before it disappeared.

"Shall I follow him?" asked Ben.

"Oh ― no," said Tom, trying to recover his breath, "we'll never find it. Let's talk to Isa ― see what she knows."

Isa was enjoying another cup of tea from the pot of tea that Jones had thoughtfully made. "Did you know that man?" asked Barnaby.

"I? Know? No, no know. Many people always coming ― going ― coming ― going. Many, many people. I know nossing. I am from Málaga."

"Well, Isa, this place is now out of bounds," said Jones. "_No enter, OK? _Can I have your key, please?"

Isa reluctantly drew a key from her waistband and handed it over. "No more cleaning?" she asked sadly.

"No more cleaning," said Barnaby. "Can we drive you anywhere?"

"No, I live _zere_," and she pointed across the road.

"If you remember anything ― anything at all ― about these visitors," he continued, "please call me," and he gave her his card.

"Or you could come down to the police station," added Jones.

"Police station? For another cup of tea?" asked Isa brightly.

. . .

. . .

. . .

James parked his red Aston Martin coupé at the top of the little lane that led down to the woods on the far side of Midsomer Florey and walked the rest of the way. _Never __can be too careful_, he thought to himself as he pressed the doorbell of the familiar little cottage with honeysuckle climbing over the porch. The door was answered by a powerfully-built young man wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a white vest, through which rippling muscles could be discerned. His naked biceps were particularly well developed.

"H―hello, Horry," said James with a grin.

"Jimmy-boy!" exclaimed Horatio, opening the door wide. A fragrant smell wafted over James's nostrils.

"Mmm, smells wonderful!" James sniffed the air ostentatiously. "What is it?"

"Duck_ à l'orange_. Specially for you, Jimmy."

"I say!" James didn't actually say anything but strode into the kitchen, where a plain stripped pine table was laid for two. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"Well, you've been your usual, lovable, beautiful self, that's all." Horatio winked at James, who turned bright red (he turned bright red very easily). "And idiotic too, of course," added Horry, which had the effect of reversing the colour in James's face.

"Now, H-Horry, Dad's been on at me about your aunt. He's desperate to get his hands on that nursery of hers."

Horatio Potts paused for a moment while pouring out the _Merlot '97 _and said in a serious voice, "He won't get it. It's been in the family for over a century."

"You really do care for that old b-biddy, don't you?" asked James.

"Aunt Phyllis? I'd do anything for her." He made a beefcake of his biceps and struck an Atlas-like pose. "What do you think?"

"H-have you been to the gym today?"

"Yeah, first thing this morning. And this evening too, I'll be on the treadmill."

"It c-certainly pays off," said James admiringly.

"Got to get myself into shape for the show at the _Playmate_ tomorrow."

"I th-thought it was every other Thursday?"

"It is, but they changed it round this week because Slagheap Sally could only make it on Wednesday."

"I b-bet some people will think she's a real woman!" giggled James.

"Well, what do you expect? They have female strippers every other night of the week." Horatio opened the oven door and, taking the padded gloves which resembled frogs with enormous mouths, carefully extracted the sizzling roasting tin in which lay a glowing browned duck, its breast covered in glistening orange slices. James silently admired Horatio's strong tanned hands and the way the muscles in his arms interacted, some bulging here, some bulging there, as he lifted the tin onto a work-surface. "Got to let it rest awhile," he said and threw himself onto a chair in an almost straight line from his head to his toes. "Meanwhile, drink up, baby." He refilled James's glass of _Merlot '97_.

"You ― you aren't still seeing that girl, are you?" asked James timidly, after taking a sip.

"Which girl? They're all crazy about me."

"Belinda, the b-barmaid." James looked at Horatio as he took a rather larger gulp of wine.

"That's all finished," he said, looking straight at James. "We split up. She knows that."

. . .

. . .

. . .

"What have you got for me, George?" asked Tom, strolling into the morgue behind Dr Bullard.

"Lots!" said George enthusiastically. There were three gleaming stainless steel tables, on which lay three different bodies, two of them in several parts. The heads of the first two were wrapped in blue plastic film, so that they resembled large blue footballs. George dramatically unwound the film from the first head. "Jane Smith," he said, "as you can see."

"Yes, George," said Tom, as the Gorgon stared back at him blankly.

George gently turned the torso to one side so that her back could be seen. A long, deep cut ran diagonally between the shoulder-blades. "This is the blow that must have killed her, probably instantaneously. The subsequent dismemberment was purely cosmetic."

"_Ewwsh!_" said Tom. "I suppose, George, that some tool such as an axe would have been responsible for these dismemberments?"

"Almost certainly," said George. "As for this one," and George waved airily in the direction of the second gleaming stainless steel table, which he now approached, "this one is completely different."

Barnaby glared at him as George Bullard unwound the blue plastic film from the second head. "Andrew Smith, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"We have made a preliminary analysis of the contents of the stomach. Would you like to see it?"

"Oh, do I have to, George?"

"There are traces of a chemical in his system, but we have not as yet been able to identify it. We will have to wait for the lab to tell us."

"So ― which came first, decapitation or death?"

"Or were they synchronous, you mean," said George Bullard, much to Tom's irritation. "It's an interesting question. _That _one," and he waved towards Jane Smith, "had no unidentified chemicals in her stomach, but there was a quantity of digitalis."

"Enough to kill?" asked Barnaby.

"Hard to tell, but the question is academic. Her head was cut off. That's how she died. She had also recently consumed several cups of tea."

"And what about Rosemary Bellinger?" asked Tom, feeling frustrated. "Was that a natural death?"

"That's easy," said Bullard, walking over to the third table. "She also had a high quantity of digoxin in her system. Digitalis poisoning. Digitalis is a drug derived from the foxglove and is used to treat heart failure. The lethal dose is very near the maintenance dose. Digoxin is the usual drug name."

"And is it possible that it was an accidental overdose?" asked Barnaby, remembering that Doctor Swatham had not as yet provided a list of the drugs prescribed to Rosemary Bellinger as requested.

"Not a chance," said George, planting his feet apart as he looked up at the inspector. "Mrs Bellinger must have consumed something in the order of forty tablets. The normal dose is two. There was a great deal of tea in her system also."

"So it was either suicide, or..."

"Well, given the timing of the death of Mrs Smith, I think we can safely assume that it was not suicide."

"Thank you, George."

Tom Barnaby left the morgue feeling a trifle queasy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**.**

Arthur McCain lived in a rambling Edwardian house about three miles outside Midsomer Florey. It was approached by a long drive, and obscured by enormous rhododendron bushes, so that it suddenly jumped out at you when you were within fifty yards of it. Tom Barnaby and Ben Jones drew up quietly outside and Ben rang the rusty old bell that hung beside the oak studded door. "I hope he makes more sense now," said Ben.

The door was almost instantly answered by Arthur, wearing plaid trousers and a red apron. He seemed considerably more subdued that he had done the night before. "Come in, gentlemen, come in," said Arthur, with exaggerated sweeping motions of his right arm. "I believe I owe you thanks for my transport home yesterday?"

"You could say that," said Ben.

Arthur ushered them into a large drawing-room with dated, but good quality, furniture. The walls were lined with book-cases which extended almost as high as the ceiling, and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of books in them, most of them old and valuable-looking. "Sit down, sit down," said he. Jones sat down in an armchair and Barnaby on a sofa, both of which exuded a small puff of dust on impact. "What's your poison?"

Jones looked momentarily startled. "Oh ― oh, nothing for me, thanks," said Jones, and Barnaby waved his hand with a smile.

Arthur shuffled off to get himself a whisky, while Ben looked with greater attention at the book-case nearest him.

"I couldn't find my bicycle," said Arthur, returning. "I expect it's still there." He pulled up a small cane upright chair and sat down so as to face the two detectives.

"At the _Cock and Trumpet_?" asked Ben.

Arthur had a sudden attack of the giggles. "The _Cock and Crumpet_, you mean, that's what they call it. You should see what it's like on a Saturday night!"

Tom Barnaby addressed the old man very seriously. "I believe you discovered the body."

"Oh ― the body ― _the body_," he said, whispering dramatically. "What body?"

"The body of Mr Andrew Smith," said Jones impatiently.

"I know nothing of that," said Arthur. Jones and Barnaby exchanged glances. "Oh, yes... it's coming back." Arthur held his hand to his head. "There was some unpleasantness, I think."

"You mentioned something about a brawl," said Barnaby.

"_Did _I?" the academic looked with wide eyes from one to the other.

"_This brawl today,_" began Jones.

"Ah," Arthur leaned back, nodding his head in satisfaction. "I see you know your Shakespeare, young man."

Ben Jones gave Tom a look of bewildered exasperation.

"'..._This brawl today, _

'_Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden, _

'_Shall send between the red rose and the white _

'_A thousand souls to death and deadly night_,'"

declaimed Arthur, adding after the stunned silence that ensued, "Henry the Sixth, Part One."

"You ― you mean that there was a brawl in the pub, perhaps?" suggested Jones.

"Oh no, no," said Arthur, shaking his head, "not in the pub. In the Temple garden."

Tom and Ben exchanged glances once again and got up almost at the same moment.

"Mr McCain," said Tom, "we are grateful for your time. Perhaps when your mind is a bit clearer you could give us a more accurate description of what happened in the pub yesterday evening," and he pressed a card into the octogenarian's hand.

"_A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!_" cried Arthur passionately.

"Mad," said Barnaby as they were getting into the car. He could make out the shadow of Arthur McCain watching them from behind a net curtain.

"Barking," said Jones. They had driven for a few minutes when Ben continued, "Sir, did you notice the books in the book-case next to me?"

"No, I didn't," said Tom, with a half-laugh.

"They were mostly old books on chemistry and poison, but there was a new book there on biohazard. I wonder if the old man is as innocent as he seems."

"I think," said Tom, "that he knows more than he says."

"And those quotes from Shakespeare..."

"Not entirely by chance, I imagine," said Tom carefully.

Ben Jones finally spoke his mind. "Don't you think that he could be the killer?"

"I don't think so, Jones. I think that he has a lot more control over his mental faculties than he would have us believe, but a killer ― I can't see that."

"Sir," said Jones huffily and stared out of the passenger window.

...

...

...

Back at the station, Barnaby was handed an envelope at reception which contained a printed list of the medicines prescribed by Doctor Swatham for Rosemary Bellinger. Barnaby scanned the twelve items, his eyes alighting on _"Digoxin, 0.25 mg, 100 tablets. TAKE ONE TWICE DAILY. Last issued 1 December"._ So Bullard, annoyingly, had been right. The majority of the other items were heart-related drugs, though there were some that were clearly for some other problem or problems, no longer of any interest to Tom. Ben Jones printed out a passport-sized photograph of the best of the pictures of Andrew Smith's head which the photographers had by now produced, and Tom immediately set out again for Midsomer Florey, leaving Ben to collate the remainder of the photographs.

"Mr Bryce," said Barnaby as he walked into the _Cock and Trumpet_, rather in the tone of somebody greeting an old friend, "I wonder if you would be so good as to take a look at this."

Phil Bryce studied the photograph which Barnaby lay on the bar. Jones had tastefully cut off the lower inch of the original, so that the details of the jagged neckline were not visible. Finally he said, "Yes, I think I do remember him."

"Was he a regular?"

"No, not at all. He may have come in before, but I can't be certain. I don't know who he is."

"But you do remember seeing him last night?"

"I remember because he was staggering about," said Phil.

"Like Arthur?" suggested Tom.

"No, not like Arthur. It was almost as if he couldn't walk. I thought he was drunk, so I told him to go outside and get some fresh air."

"What time was this?"

"Mid-evening. Round about nine o'clock, I would guess."

"And was he with anyone?"

"No, I don't think so. He was on his own."

"Was Arthur inside the pub all yesterday evening, can you remember?"

"Oh, I think so. He certainly was from ten o'clock on, because that's when he started singing and talking nonsense. It takes Arthur a few drinks to get going."

"But he did go out ― when he found the body."

"That was well after closing time. After eleven o'clock. We're old-fashioned in that way, Inspector, we don't open all night. Arthur's always the last to leave. He only went outside to look for his bike, but the silly old fool went out the wrong way – his bicycle is still chained up at the front of the pub."

"Thank you, Mr Bryce," said Tom, putting the photograph away in his breast pocket.

He had made as if to leave when Phil said, "Wait a minute. That man."

"Sir?" Tom turned back towards him, smiling.

"He was here earlier on as well. Must have been about six o'clock. And then he _was _with somebody."

"Can you describe the person he was with?"

Phil Bryce shook his head. "No, sorry. There were quite a few other people in here at that time, but I do remember that man sitting at the bar for quite a while ― must have been half an hour or so ― chatting to another man. It was a man, but apart from that I couldn't say what he looked like. It was just the usual sort of thing. Happens every day. But it is odd, come to think of it, that he came back, the one that was killed I mean, later on. He must have been drinking somewhere else."

"Thank you for your information, sir," said Tom, handing him his card. "If you remember anything else about this other man ― anything at all ― please give me a call."

...

...

...

_What shall I wear tonight?_, pondered Belinda as she sat at her dressing-table in front of the adjustable mirror, carefully applying her eyeliner. She was due back at work, Phil having made it perfectly plain that one day off to recover from her bereavement was quite enough and that if she took any more time off she was for the chop. In any case, she was rather looking forward to being able to get out of the house that seemed so oppressive now that her mother was dead. The picture of the mutilated headless corpse still haunted her, but Doctor Swatham had prescribed some strong tranquillisers to deal with that. Perhaps James would be there. James was fun, though he didn't quite match up to that other great love of hers. Wistfully, she chewed her lower lip, which reminded her to put on lipstick. Baby pink or coral? Belinda chose baby pink. She opened the old biscuit-tin in which she kept her various trinkets, together with the letter addressed to her mother which had so surprised her earlier in the day. She drew out a bracelet which was composed of a selection of variously coloured fake stones and was just slipping it over her hand when she thought she heard a tapping noise coming from downstairs. There it was again, _tap, tap, tap_.

There was nobody at the front door, which in any case was provided with an electric bell, so she went into the kitchen and unbolted the back door. _How odd_, she thought, _nobody ever called at the back door_, and with all the police tape around... The last thing Belinda ever saw was the glint of steel over her head as the axe came crashing down.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**.**

Gavin Troy was feeling bored. He had nothing to do and he hadn't seen much of Tom, because he was out all day. This evening even Joyce had gone out to a meeting at the Women's Institute, leaving a frozen dinner for two with instructions as to how to operate the microwave. How much longer could he stay here? The thought of going back to Middlesbrough appealed to him as little as going back to school after the summer holidays. But he couldn't hang around here for much longer. He picked up a copy of the _Causton Echo _and briefly flicked through it until he came to the Entertainments page. The _Odeon _was showing _'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' _and the _ABC _had some boring film about the origins of the universe. Causton still hadn't moved into the twenty-first century, thought Troy. Then he suddenly remembered the _Playmate_, the club where as a younger man he had sometimes gone without his superior's knowledge to gawp at the topless girls and, if he was lucky, receive more personal attention from the lap dancers. Not this evening, he thought, better to give Joyce some notice. He'd go tomorrow. Suddenly his spirits lifted and he started to whistle.

"Is that you, Troy?" Tom called from the front door.

"Yes, sir," said Gavin, jumping up from the settee where he had slumped down. "Mrs Barnaby ― I mean Joyce ― has left us Chicken Tikka Masala for supper."

"Sounds delicious," said Tom, throwing his briefcase down on the recently vacated settee. "How are you feeling?" He looked at the younger man searchingly.

"Oh, fine, sir, fine," said Gavin, and in fact he did feel a lot better than he had done the day before.

"Drink?" asked Tom, already pouring out a Scotch for himself.

"Oh ― thank you very much, sir."

Tom handed him a glass of Scotch.

"How's the case going?" asked Gavin.

Tom took a slow draught of the golden liquid before answering. "I don't think, Troy," he said slowly, "that you should be burdened with the details of this business at the moment."

"Oh, but _please_, sir."

Tom knew that pleading tone. "All I am prepared to say is that it concerns three dead bodies, two of which had their heads cut off."

"Sounds rather minor, sir," said Troy with a grin.

"And I have no idea why. But as for getting involved ― forget it."

Troy felt rather hurt, but tried not to show it. Surely his old boss knew him well enough... well, perhaps that was the trouble. He _did _know him well, perhaps too well.

It had gone eleven o'clock when Joyce returned home, to find Tom and Gavin snoozing, one on the settee and one in an armchair.

"Well, really!" she said. "You evidently enjoyed the meal." She bustled into the kitchen where she started rinsing the dirty plates left by the two men.

"Oh, sorry, love," said Tom, rubbing his eyes. "How was the meeting?"

"It was good. Very good. All about cooking. Which reminds me, you said you'd come with me to Mrs Potts' nursery, to buy some oranges."

"I didn't say I _would_," said Tom. "Can't you go there by yourself?"

"But it's you she wants to see! She wants to show you round. Oh, Tom, it would be so interesting. They can't stop talking about her at the W.I."

"Is she famous then?" asked Troy, who had woken up with a start.

"She makes some very good marmalade, Gavin," said Joyce, "which she sells. And she writes a cookery column for the _Causton Echo_."

"I think I may have seen it," lied Gavin.

"I thought you said you were going to make some marmalade," called out Tom.

"I did. And I am." Joyce stood at the doorway of the kitchen, drying the plates with a tea-towel.

"But why go to all that trouble if you can buy the stuff that Mrs Potts has made?"

"You don't understand," said Joyce, returning to the sink. "I want to show that I can do it too."

"Ah," said Tom, looking at Gavin, who rolled his eyes. At that moment Tom's mobile phone buzzed in his trouser pocket.

"Sorry," he said, extracting it with some difficulty. "Barnaby! … No, it's not too late, George, always a pleasure … really? … Well, thank you, George, and you have a good night too." He put away his mobile phone.

Gavin Troy looked at him expectantly, but Tom only said, "That was George Bullard. On second thoughts, I'd be delighted to come with you to the nursery tomorrow." He smiled broadly at his wife, who now came and sat on the arm of the settee.

"And what are you going to do tomorrow, Gavin?" asked Joyce sweetly.

"Oh ― er, I thought I would go to the cinema tomorrow evening. So I'll be _out _for supper, Joyce. They're showing _'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'_," he said.

"I've heard it's a very good film," said Tom, whose mobile phone again buzzed in his trouser pocket. "Sorry about this," he said, extracting it with another little struggle. "Barnaby... yes... yes... I'll be right over."

"Oh, but Tom!" exclaimed Joyce, "it's half past eleven!"

"Another beheading," he said grimly, getting his coat and picking up his briefcase. Joyce and Gavin looked at one another.

...

...

...

Tom Barnaby rubbed his hands together, on account of the cold, as he walked briskly up to the now familiar cottage. All the activity was at the kitchen door, where George Bullard, in his white jumpsuit, was bending over the bloody remains of Belinda Bellinger. Two uniformed officers were standing guard with portable search-lights.

"Five parts this time," said George, "and there's the head." He pointed at the railing running along the side of the property. Belinda's beautiful head had been impaled on one of the spikes.

"But why, George, why?" asked Tom.

George Bullard shrugged his shoulders. "That's your business," he said. "This one must have died six to eight hours ago."

"Who found her?"

"The landlord at the _Cock and Trumpet_. He's inside, talking to Jones."

Tom walked into the front room, where a visibly shaken Phil Bryce, sitting in the armchair that he remembered Belinda sitting in, was saying, "...and I never would have wished this on her."

Ben Jones, Tom noted with disgust, was wearing a pyjama top under his jacket, which was not buttoned up.

"Jones!" said Tom and pointed at his jacket.

"Oh ― sorry sir," and he hastily did up his jacket. "Mr Bryce has been telling me―"

"Perhaps Mr Bryce would like to tell me himself," said Tom, smiling at Phil.

"Um," said Phil, clearing his throat, "I only came round after closing time, 'cos Belinda hadn't showed up."

"Was that worth coming round here for in the middle of the night?" enquired Barnaby.

"Well ― I was concerned about her. You see, I'd told her she could only have one day off."

"He'd come to give her the sack," said Jones.

"You could put it like that," said Phil, looking down at the ground.

"Did you try telephoning?" asked Tom.

"I wanted to see her in person," said Phil. "I don't believe in getting rid of people by telephone."

"Mr Bryce," said Tom, "we now have three bodies, all of which appear to have been attacked by an axe, one of them in the garden of your pub. You were keeping an axe at your premises. You say it has disappeared. Would you not say that that was significant?"

Phil Bryce opened and shut his mouth three times, rather like a goldfish, and then said "It ain't nothing to do with me, if that's what you're suggesting."

Tom walked out to where George was taking various measurements. "George, do you need me any more?"

"No ― no, you have an early night," said George with irony, for it was now well after midnight.

"Could you come with us, sir? We'll take you back to the pub," said Tom, re-entering the front room.

Phil Bryce, who appeared to be clutching something box-shaped under his coat, got up and followed the detectives out of the little cottage.

"Why does it always have to be in the middle of the night?" asked Ben Jones plaintively as he walked over to his own car, out of earshot of the publican.

"Why indeed?" asked Tom.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**.**

Hector Ashby-Petherington had finished breakfast but was still sitting at one end of the long dining-table, sipping tea and leafing through the pages of the latest edition of _Horse and Hound_. At the other end James piled a small mountain of marmalade onto a thin slice of buttered toast and took a bite.

"Go easy on that stuff," growled his father, "We'll have to get some more."

"W-well, it is very good."

"Of course it's good. It's Potty's original. Best marmalade in the county. In the country, probably."

"You won't be able to get it any more if you buy her land," remarked James.

His father glared at him. "She can brew it up somewhere else," he said angrily.

James finished the rest of his slice of toast in silence and took up that morning's _Causton Echo_, which Marta, the housekeeper, had strategically placed in the middle of the table. "I say, Daddy!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Have you seen this?"

"Of course I haven't seen it. You've got it."

"Two people murdered in Midsomer Florey. M-mister and Mrs Smith, of Blackwater Drive, Causton."

Hector froze in the act of turning a page.

"It says here that their bodies were hacked into several pieces and their heads chopped off."

"James," said Hector softly, "will you promise me not to breathe a word of this to any-one?"

"Oh, I'll p-promise, Daddy, but why? Did you know them?"

"Never mind that. Just keep your trap shut."

"B-but it's in the local paper!"

"Nobody reads that rag except you," snorted Hector. "Promise me that you'll keep quiet about it, on the soul of your sadly departed mother (God rest her soul)."

"Oh, yes, anything you say, Daddy." James had never seen his father so exercised about anything.

Sir Hector stood up abruptly. "Tell Marta that I won't be in for lunch," he said and walked out of the room and out of the house.

The mention of his mother made James feel very sad, though it was over ten years ago that she had died. He recalled the endless rows and scenes that had characterized his early childhood, and how his father had tried to get a divorce but failed. When his mother's body had been found at the bottom of a cliff-face in the Outer Hebrides there were those that had whispered of foul play ― that she was such a good climber that she would never have fallen, or even attempted to scale such a height merely to see close-up a colony of breeding gannets. But the inquest had pronounced death by misadventure, and his father had put on a great show of public grief and paid for an extremely lavish funeral reception. James soon put the memories out of his head and thought of Horatio.

...

...

...

The Peugeot 306 drew up behind a battered old green minibus outside Phyllis Potts' nursery in Primrose Lane and Joyce jumped out enthusiastically.

"Why don't we just pick up the oranges and go?" asked Tom, who got out with rather less enthusiasm.

"Don't be silly, Tom. She wants to _show _you the place."

A wave of humid heat hit them as they entered the nursery, which was entirely enclosed in glass panels. Forming part of the property and to the side of the entrance was a substantial Early Victorian two-storey house, which had a 'Private' sign on the door. Underneath this sign was a smaller hand-written card reading 'Phyllis Potts is available by appointment only'. Mrs Potts' strident tones could be heard from deep inside the maze of leafy citrus. "Come on!" said Joyce, pulling Tom along by the arm. They passed row after row of containerised fruit trees in various stages of development. As they turned a corner Tom could see Phyllis ahead of them, lecturing a small group of young people of Asiatic appearance.

"Over here," she was saying, "we have the tangelo."

"Ahhh ― _tan - ge – lo_!" exclaimed the young people, nodding to one another knowingly.

"What's a tangelo?" whispered Tom.

"A cross between a grapefruit and a tangerine," said Joyce.

"How do you know that?"

"_Countdown_. You can learn a lot from _Countdown_," she said proudly.

Phyllis Potts caught sight of the new arrivals and strode forward. "Inspector Barnaby!" she said with delight. "How good of you to visit my little place!"

"I've been _dying _to meet you," said Joyce, beaming at her.

"This is my wife ― Joyce," explained Tom. Joyce was staring at Phyllis as if she was in the presence of a semi-goddess, but Phyllis hardly seemed to notice Joyce.

"These students have come all the way from the language school in Causton by minibus," said Phyllis, gesturing in their direction. "Aren't they sweet?"

"And presumably all the way from Japan before that," said Tom, turning towards them.

"Ohh ― yes," said the least reticent of the students, stepping forward. "I am flrom Japan. My name is Hitoshi Nakamura." Tom held out his hand, and Mr Nakamura bowed smartly at ninety degrees from the hip.

"Are you here for long?" enquired Tom pleasantly.

"I ― alrrived ― rlast ― Monday," replied Mr Nakamura carefully, nodding vehemently.

"What they've really come to see is my Zen garden," said Phyllis, and a little buzz of excitement ran through the group. "This way please!"

Mrs Potts strode on ahead, closely followed by the Japanese, and then by Joyce, who was having to break into a little run every few paces in order to keep up with her heroine. Tom trudged along behind. After a few more turns they arrived at what appeared to be a sand-pit with a few rocks scattered about. The sand had been raked into what looked like ripples. In the centre of the clearing was a wooden structure that resembled a little temple, open on one side. Beside it, at an angle, was a stone bench, and beside that a corroded old copper ewer. "Not many flowers in this garden, Joyce," commented Tom when he finally caught up with her.

"There aren't _supposed _to be any flowers," said Joyce in exasperation. "It's a _Zen _garden. The sand represents the sea."

"Shhh!" hissed Phyllis Potts. The Japanese students had fallen silent and some of them sat on the stone bench. Others squatted on the ground. The more profane among them started taking pictures of one another with tiny digital cameras. "Let's leave them to it," said Phyllis, tiptoeing away.

"What are they doing?" asked Tom when they were at a safe distance.

"Meditating," said Phyllis. "You know, that spot is a place of complete tranquillity. I often come there just to sit and think."

"It certainly has a lovely atmosphere," said Joyce. Tom looked at her sideways.

"Now, let me show you the watering system," said Phyllis.

"Oh, I think..." Tom looked at his watch. At that moment a powerfully-built young man, wearing only gumboots and a pair of shorts, crossed the path ahead with a wheelbarrow full of verdant saplings.

"Horatio!" called out Mrs Potts. "Come and meet Inspector Barnaby!" Horatio put down the wheelbarrow and, wiping his hand on his shorts, advanced towards Tom with arm outstretched. "Inspector Barnaby, this is Horatio, my favourite nephew. And this is his wife," she added as an afterthought.

"I see you work here," said Tom, whose hand had been tightly squeezed by Horatio.

"I help out ― from time to time," he said, with an engaging grin.

"He does all the heavy work for me," said Phyllis. "I don't know what I'd do without Horatio. Has that axe turned up yet?"

Tom listened intently.

"No, auntie, it hasn't."

"Phyllis ― can I call you that? ― what we've really come for is four pounds of Seville oranges and a few lemons," said Joyce, aware that her husband's attention was elsewhere.

"Oh, Horatio will sell you those. Go and find them, will you? There's a dear." Horatio winked at Joyce and moved off with the wheelbarrow.

"I read your column in the _Causton Echo _every week," said Joyce excitedly as they retraced their steps. Phyllis gave a short, shrill cackle of laughter.

"The one recipe I will never disclose," she said, "is the one for Mrs Potts' Original Thick-Cut Marmalade. That is top secret, handed down from generation to generation."

"The ladies at the Women's Institute say it's absolutely delicious," said Joyce.

Mrs Potts looked suitably gratified, as though Joyce had finally won the right to be in her nursery.

"Tell me, Mrs Potts," said Tom amiably, as they began slowly walking back towards the entrance, "does the name of Rosemary Bellinger mean anything to you?"

"Rose ― yes, of course, she's my dearest friend," said Phyllis.

"And what about Jane and Andrew Smith?"

Mrs Potts wrinkled her nose. "I know who they are. Ghastly people, really. Why do you ask?"

"I have to tell you that Rosemary Bellinger, and her daughter, and the Smiths, have all been murdered ― three of them by an axe," and Tom looked hard at Phyllis Potts, who stopped and put her hand to her mouth, giving a little gasp.

"Oh dear," she said. "Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what I'm hoping to find out," said Tom.

"Was Rosemary...?"

"Not by an axe," said Tom. "She died of digitalis poisoning."

"I'm really, really sad about Rose. I saw her only a week ago. She's a bit of an invalid, you know, but her daughter drove her over to see me one afternoon. She and Horatio used to go out together for a time, but then... Well, that's young people for you, isn't it?"

"I know what you mean, Phyllis," said Joyce, thinking of her own daughter's several boy-friends before she settled down.

"I don't care much about the Smiths; as I say, I hardly knew them, but there was talk about them running a drugs racket. And they lived in the wrong part of Causton. Shabby people, I believe. But Rosemary ― yes, I'm very, very sorry to hear that she has passed away. Do tell me when you find out who did it, won't you?"

"I most certainly will," said Tom.

"Are you sure you won't see the plumbing of the place? It really is quite impressive." Mrs Potts had recovered her social poise and the three of them had resumed their gradual progress towards the entrance.

"I'm afraid we don't have time," said Tom hastily. By now they were in sight of the cash till, where Horatio was filling a large black plastic sack with shiny red oranges. Tom could see various items for sale on the counter, including several jars of Mrs Potts' Original Thick-Cut Marmalade.

"In that case," said Phyllis, "I really ought to be getting back to my Japanese visitors. I really am _so _pleased that you could come, Inspector Barnaby... Mrs Barnaby...," and she marched off in the direction of the Zen garden.

They were still about thirty yards from the cash till when Tom, unseen by Joyce, drew his glasses from his top pocket and dropped them quietly on the path. Having reached the counter he said, "and how many lemons was it, Joyce?"

"Oh, four will do," she said.

"In that case, pretty lady, the lemons are for free," said Horatio and winked at Joyce again.

Tom took his wallet from his breast pocket and handed Horatio a twenty-pound note. "_Oh_, Joyce," he said, feeling his top pocket, "I must have dropped my glasses. It wasn't far back, I think I heard something fall on the ground." As he was holding out his hand for change Joyce obligingly went back to look for Tom's glasses.

"And a jar of the Thick-Cut Marmalade, too," said Tom urgently. "My wife mustn't know!"

"Oh, I see, it's like that, is it?" said Horatio and winked again, this time at Tom, who, having made sure that the offending jar was well covered by oranges, now carried the heavy sack to the boot of Joyce's Peugeot.

"Oily young man, that nephew of hers," said Tom as he buckled up.

"Oh, I don't know," said Joyce, smiling to herself. "I thought he was rather nice."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**.**

Tom Barnaby was poring over the large-scale close-ups of the grislier cuts and chops inflicted on the various body parts that the lab had produced when PC Robson appeared at the door of his office, coughing deferentially. "Mm, what is it?" asked Barnaby absently.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's a young man at reception who insists on seeing you," said PC Robson.

"What young man?" Barnaby looked up.

"He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he says that it's to do with the murder investigation."

Barnaby walked out into reception, where stood a rather red-faced James Ashby-Petherington. "Are you Inspector B-Barnaby?" he asked.

"Come in, come in," said Tom, holding the door of his office open for James. "What can I do for you?"

"W-well, the thing is," said James, sitting down at Tom's desk as Tom invited him to do with his arm movements, "do you think you could keep what I'm going to say c confidential?"

"That rather depends on what you are going to say," said Tom, sitting on the edge of the desk.

"B-but please don't tell my father. I think he would kill me."

"And who is your father, and who are you?" asked Tom blandly.

"Oh, I'm J-James, and my father is Hector. Ashby-Petherington."

"If it's a question of preventing another person from being killed, then of course I would not tell your father," said Tom reassuringly.

"Oh, th-that's all right then," said James, who felt that the detective was now on his side. "You see, my f-father seems to know the Smiths. The ones that were h hacked to death."

"When you say he seems to know them, is that strange?"

"Oh, yes, he's never m-mentioned them before. It was only when I saw it in the paper and read out about them being m-murdered that he suddenly went all peculiar and asked me not to tell anyone about it. Th-that's what I thought was strange."

Tom Barnaby rubbed his chin. "So you think your father has some secret to do with the Smiths that he doesn't want anyone to know about?"

"Well, yes. Only, if you do any investigating, do you mind not saying that I t-told you anything about it?" James looked rather desperate.

"I think we might manage that," said Tom with a wide smile. "Could you give me your father's address?"

"Yes, it's the M-Manor House, Midsomer Florey. And I live there too."

"You have been most helpful," said Tom.

...

...

...

Gareth Crawley, who was a neat-looking little man in his mid-forties with thinning hair and weak eyesight, was sitting in his office at Causton's imposing Town Hall, reflecting with satisfaction how successful he had been in blocking the application of the owner of no.28, Magnolia Close, to install a picture window at the back of his bungalow, when he heard a dreadful cry.

"Crawley!" The roar reverberated round the empty labyrinthine corridors. "_Crawley!_"Hastily he returned the tumbler of whisky which he had been sipping to the bottom drawer of his desk just as Sir Hector Ashby-Petherington burst into the room.

"I want my money back!"

"Money?" asked Crawley in a very high voice, fingering the knot of his tie.

"The plan. The Potts plan. It's off."

"But, Hector, we had a deal." Gareth had turned white.

"Yes, but that depended on my clients being able to complete. They can't. It's off."

"Hector, how can I possibly―"

"Don't tell me I haven't noticed that floozy of a wife of yours driving around in a new Porsche. And membership of the Golf Club doesn't come cheap."

"The Porsche? The Golf Club?" Gareth's voice grew higher and higher. "How could I ever get hold of that money now?"

"Sell the Porsche," snapped Hector.

"Sandra would kill me!" cried Gareth.

"Listen, Crawley," Hector leaned forward with his fists on the desk, so that his nose almost touched the nose of the Chairman of the Planning Committee, and said softly but with deliberate emphasis, "if I don't get that money by the end of the week you'll be cut up into little pieces like the others."

Gareth Crawley gibbered in terror as Hector returned to the door. "The others...? Hector, _please_..."

"You heard me," said Hector. "The money ― or else," and he banged the door behind him so hard that a miniature portrait of the Leader of the Council fell off the wall. Gareth opened the bottom drawer of his desk and drained the tumbler of whisky in one.

...

...

...

There was a large poster outside the _Playmate _Club in Causton which read : FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY ― THE FABULOUS **SLAGHEAP SALLY** ― AND ― EVERYBODY'S FAVOURITE ― **HORATIO THE HUGE** ― **STRICTLY OVER 21'S ONLY**, but Gavin Troy did not notice it as he rushed into the club that evening, looking neither left nor right, hoping nobody would recognize him.

Moments later, with similar concerns for anonymity but for a different reason, James Ashby-Petherington also rushed into the _Playmate _Club without looking left or right, though he knew the poster was there.

The club was much as Gavin remembered it ― a smallish room with an improvised stage at one end and the bar running down the left-hand side. He was asked to pay five pounds at the door, which he thought exorbitant, but he happily paid up, thinking of the night ahead. He made straight for the bar.

"A pint of lager, mate," he asked the barman, who winked at him. Strange, he thought. Gavin chose an unoccupied table to the left of the stage at the front, so that he could see all the action. Shortly after he had sat down, a young man with a bright red face made his way to a similar small table to the right of the stage. Behind them were several tables, about half of which were taken by a varied assortment of people. There were men on their own, looking rather shifty, men in twos, talking loudly, and couples hardly talking at all. At the back was a large group of young women, all of whom were drinking vodkas and Coke and shouting at one another. On the stage was a most unattractive-looking tall woman, wearing an obvious wig, false eyelashes and fishnet stockings. _'I don't think much of that bird,' _thought Gavin, taking several gulps of lager. The female on the stage was telling a succession of blue jokes in a deep voice. Troy did not find them at all funny, but the audience screamed with laughter.

Her routine presently came to an end and a fat little man with a bald head came onto the stage, clapping hard. "Ladies and gentlemen! Please give it up for the one and only ― Slagheap Sally!" he shouted into his microphone and those of the audience who were not shouting at one another clapped half-heartedly. There was then an intermission during which deafening music was played through the large speakers on the stage. Troy looked about him. There was no sign of the lap dancers anywhere. _'This place has gone downhill,' _he thought to himself. _'At least we must get the strippers now.'_

The fat little man came back onto the stage and announced : "And now ― the moment you've all been waiting for ― Horatio the Huge!" The girls all screamed. The loudspeakers crackled and played the semblance of a fanfare, at which a powerfully-built young man, covered from shoulder to toe in a long black cape, swept onto the stage. Gavin could not believe his eyes.

After striding round the stage for a bit, taking care not to stride too far lest he stride off the stage, to the accompaniment of some sultry music that was emanating from the loudspeakers, Horatio threw off his cape and the girls at the back cheered. He was wearing only a tight pair of red running shorts and flip-flops.

"Ged 'em off!" yelled one of the girls and some of the men wolf-whistled.

Gavin's mouth dropped open and he stared in horror as the young man began to divest himself, bit by bit, and with many sham starts, of the tight red shorts, which he then flung into the audience, where there was some fighting as to their eventual ownership. To his immense, but not unqualified, relief, Gavin saw that under his shorts he was wearing a white G-string. Horatio turned round slowly on the spot, showing off his muscular body from every angle. The girls went wild.

Troy wanted to leave, but he couldn't. For some reason he felt himself anchored to his chair.

Horatio leant forward from the stage and kissed the forehead of the young man with the red face sitting at the table on the right of the stage. _'That's disgusting,' _thought Troy.

The music changed to the familiar '_Stripper_' theme by David Rose and Horatio produced a bottle of baby oil which James had handed to him. Leaning backwards and flexing at the knees, Horatio proceeded to squirt baby oil all over his body, starting with the nipples.

'_Oooh,' _thought Troy, and _'Ooosh!' _Horatio was rubbing it in with slow circular movements of his hands and looked as though he was in some sort of ecstasy. Troy thought of arresting him there and then, but could not think of exactly which law he had broken.

Horatio edged seductively forward with his right hip towards the audience, pointing invitingly at the knot of his G-string. One of the gaggle of girls at the back ran to the front of the stage and pulled at it quickly, like a bird pecking at a worm, and then ran back. The girls all screamed with laughter.

Troy thought he was going to be sick.

After swinging the G-string around his head a few times (and it was now not only the G-string that was swinging), Horatio threw it into Troy's face and blew him a kiss.

Goaded into action, Troy picked up the garment from his lap where it had fallen and flung it onto the stage in disgust. As he stalked out of the club and into the chilly night air one of the girls called after him "_Closet poofter!_" even as the rest of her gang, who had rushed up to the front of the stage, were intent on obtaining further evidences of Horatio's professional soubriquet.

"I will never ― never ― ever," muttered Gavin through clenched teeth as he marched along, "never ― ever go into that place again," and he fumbled in his pocket for the entrance ticket, which he threw angrily into the gutter. Then he remembered that even that was an offence, so he retraced his steps to pick it up again.

As he was crouching down looking for the discarded ticket two men, both dressed entirely in leather, burst out of the club.

"I can't go back there," one of them said, "it's crawling with coppers. I nearly got nicked yesterday."

"Contact wants the stuff out of there," said the other, who seemed to be the more aggressive of the two. "We done the deal, remember? If you can't do it I will."

His policeman's instinct made Troy crouch down even further. He was partially obscured by an old parked van.

"The geezer owes me 'n all," continued the more aggressive one. Can't help it if he's dead ― serve him right anyway."

"And what do you think you're doing, mate?" Troy's cover had been only temporarily successful. Troy looked up at the leather-clad figure towering over him.

"I ― er ― um," mouthed Troy, playing for time, but his interlocutor grabbed him by the collar and pushed him hard against his motorized cover.

"I don't think this is a good idea," the inspector began, but the more aggressive leather-clad man put his elbow to Troy's neck and pressed it against the side of the van. Gavin's hand scratched along the side of the vehicle and started bleeding.

"Bloody kink," foamed the angry man and Troy, short of air, nodded respectfully before he professionally twisted his attacker's arm and inelegantly kicked him in the shins. He hurried away, assessing his hand and cursing. He was definitely never, ever coming here again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**.**

Tom Barnaby woke the next morning with the definite impression that he could smell oranges. He looked at the alarm-clock on his bedside table. Ten to eight. He could hear Joyce clattering about in the kitchen. Swiftly he dressed and hurried downstairs. The smell of oranges became more intense.

"Joyce, what are you doing?" he asked. The kitchen door was only slightly ajar and when Tom opened it wide the wave of steam from two large bubbling cauldrons hit him. He could only just make out Joyce through the mist.

"I thought I'd start early," said Joyce.

"Oh ― do you think that's a good idea?" Tom saw that all the available work-surfaces were completely covered in the remnants of oranges.

"Of course I do. I said I'd do it, and I'm doing it."

"But you did wash those oranges thoroughly, didn't you, Joyce?"

"Yes!" said Joyce indignantly.

"I mean ― very thoroughly."

"_Yes!_" she screamed.

"Ah." Tom retreated to the dining-room and sank down at his usual place, "I hope I'm not going to have orange-juice for breakfast."

"No," said Joyce, entering with bowl and spoon. "Muesli! It's for your diet, Tom."

After about five minutes during which Tom consumed most of his bowl of muesli, Joyce returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and sat down to join him. "How's the case going?" she asked.

"Oh," Tom's voice was half-broken, "it's taking some time. Which reminds me, I must speak to Hector Ashby-Petherington."

"Hector who?"

"He lives in 'the Manor House', outside Midsomer Florey," said Tom.

"Morning!" A sleepy Gavin Troy stood yawning in front of them.

"Gavin!" said Joyce brightly. "Did you enjoy the film last night?"

"Yes ― thanks ― it was very good," said Gavin, sitting down, hoping that there would not be too many questions about the film.

"I didn't hear you come in," said Joyce. "It must have gone on rather late."

"It did ― rather."

"But what have you done to your hand?" For the first time Joyce noticed that Gavin had a bandage wound round his right palm.

"Oh, nothing ― just a scratch," he said with a little laugh. Tom looked at him quizzically.

"I do hope it's alright soon. What's it going to be this morning, Gavin? Bacon and eggs?"

"Oh, no ― thanks. Nothing for me."

"Well, if you're sure, I'd better get back to my marmalade-making. We got the oranges at Mrs Potts' nursery in Midsomer Florey. Primrose Lane, wasn't it, Tom?"

"Yes, it was." Tom put down his spoon in his finished cereal bowl and leaned back in his chair.

"I'll leave you boys to it," said Joyce and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Sir," began Troy hesitantly as soon as she had gone, "I mean ― Tom ― don't you think I could become involved in this case ― the one about the bodies hacked into pieces. I mean, I'm not really doing anything here, and it would help get me back into my stride ― if you see what I mean. Sir."

Tom looked at his lodger shrewdly while taking a sip of coffee. "Perhaps," he said. "Did you ever meet my present sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," said Gavin, "at Cully's wedding."

"Of course you did." Tom recalled the occasion of his daughter's wedding, which had almost eclipsed another case he had been working on at the time. "If you promise not to tread on his toes..."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Gavin said with delight. "You told me there were three victims and that two of them were hacked to pieces. Have you found the murder weapon, sir?"

"No," said Tom, "but they were almost certainly killed with an axe. An axe belonging to Phyllis Potts, the owner of the nursery in Primrose Lane, Midsomer Florey, has gone missing."

"Gone missing?"

Tom was about to explain when his mobile buzzed. "Barnaby... yes... yes, I'll be right over. That was Jones," he said, snapping his mobile shut, "they've arrested a man trying to break into the Smiths' house. Jane and Andrew Smith are two of the unfortunate victims. It looks as though they were running a drugs racket. They were the ones hacked to pieces." Gavin's eyes gleamed. "The man's at the station now, waiting to be interviewed. Why don't you join us?"

...

...

...

Ben Jones was waiting at the door of Interview Room no.2, shuffling some papers in his hand, when Barnaby arrived, closely followed by Gavin Troy.

"Oh, boy!" he said without looking up, "you're going to love this."

"Love what?" Barnaby paused. "You did meet Inspector Troy, my former sergeant, didn't you, Jones?"

Ben looked up in surprise. "We never properly met, there was such a crowd in that church. I've heard a lot about you." He enthusiastically shook Gavin's right hand, which was still bandaged. Troy said nothing but winced. "Before we go in, sir, you ought to have a look at this. Smith's bank statements."

Barnaby scanned the documents briefly. "Fifty thousand ̶ a hundred thousand ̶ eighty thousand ̶ in, out ̶ good heavens, Jones!"

"And always cash, sir. The entries usually say 'wages', but the only wages he could have been paying..."

"...Are the wages of sin," said Tom. "Quite. Let's get this over, shall we?"

At the desk of Interview Room No.2 sat, or rather lounged, a young man dressed entirely in leather, with his arms folded and his boots on the desk, chewing gum.

"Chief Detective Inspector Barnaby, Detective Inspector Troy and Detective Sergeant Jones," barked PC Robson.

"The three degrees, is it?" sneered the young man, who took his feet off the desk but continued chewing in the manner of a cow, his jaw moving slowly from side to side.

PC Robson switched on the voice recorder on the desk.

"I see here," said Barnaby, putting on his glasses and consulting a file in front of him, "that you are called Midge. Is that your real name?"

"Nah, my real name's Oliver, but nobody calls me that."

"Oliver what?"

"Oliver Benson. I already tol' 'em that at the desk." Troy, seated behind the other two detectives, was staring at him hard.

"And you were trying to break into the house of Mr and Mrs Smith in Blackwater Drive in Causton when you were apprehended, and found with a quantity of cannabis in your pocket."

"Yeah, well. Like I said, I dunno how it got there."

"Let's not beat about the bush," said Jones, "you're a known drug dealer and you were caught red-handed."

Tom leaned forward. "The Smiths' house is stashed full of drugs. Why were you there?"

"It's like this, see. They owe me and I owe them. But they owe me more than I owe them. So I wanted to go in 'n get what was mine."

"What ̶ was yours?"

"Ten grand. They owe me."

"Owed," said Tom. "Are you aware that Mr and Mrs Smith are both dead?"

Midge looked from Barnaby to Jones. "Dead? I dunno nothing about that."

"So I'm afraid," said Barnaby, "that whatever is owing to you will not be repaid in the short term."

"Just a minute," said Troy, leaning forward. "I know that bloke."

Midge stopped in mid-chew as recognition spread across his face. "Yeah," he said, "you're that kinky copper. Sorry about your _hand_," and he made a dismissive gesture.

"Interview terminated at 9.36 a.m.," said Barnaby, speaking into the voice recorder and switching it off. "Troy, can we speak outside?"

"I can have you done for assault, mate!" said Midge.

"Just _watch _it," said Gavin, getting up and pointing his finger at him.

"Jones, can you... carry on?" asked Tom vaguely.

"It would be a pleasure, sir," said Ben Jones, and as Tom and Gavin slipped outside they heard Jones shouting "Right! Benson, what do you mean by _'owed'_?"

"What was all that about?" asked Tom as soon as they were in the corridor. "You said you _knew _him."

"I'm sorry, sir." Gavin hung his head, looking very ashamed. "You know when I said I went to the cinema to see that film..."

"Yes, _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. A classic, so I believe."

"Well... in fact I didn't go there. I went to ‒ the _Playmate _club." Gavin blurted it out and immediately felt much better.

"The club with all the strippers? Well, there's nothing wrong in that, is there?"

"But... the night I went it wasn't _female _strippers." Gavin looked away from Tom's steady gaze.

"Oh, _Troy_," said Tom, almost tenderly. He thought his old assistant might be about to burst into tears.

"And when I came out ̶ I couldn't stay long, sir, not when I saw it was full of bum boys ̶ these two leather guys came out as well and they were having an argument. One of them was that bloke in there. They saw me listening and that bastard went for me ― that's how I got _this_, sir," and he held up his bandaged hand, "but I soon dealt with him. In a professional manner ― so to speak."

"Of course, Troy. I would expect nothing less." Tom Barnaby was not keen to hear the details of any fisticuffs that might have gone on from his former sergeant. "But you say they were having an argument? What sort of argument?" Tom's voice was suddenly sharper.

"I dunno. But one of them said he'd nearly been nicked and the place was crawling with coppers. That's all I remember, sir."

"Thank you for telling me that, Troy, thank you very much indeed. Why don't you go home and keep Joyce company? I hear it's chops tonight, and I'd hate to think of any of them being wasted."

"Oh, _thank you_, sir!" Troy suddenly looked like a happy puppy again.

...

...

...

"It's obvious, sir," said Jones, as he and Barnaby emerged from the police station, "the Smiths were running a racket, providing a sort of temporary loan and storage facilities for the dealers. The dealers demanded too much, the Smiths couldn't pay, so one of them killed them."

"Yes," said Tom, rubbing his chin. "That would certainly explain all the money going in and out in cash. But what were they spending all that money on? Midge only talked of ten grand. There's much more than that going in and out of the account. It's not as if they lived in a palace."

"Perhaps one of the dealers got greedy," suggested Jones.

"Perhaps." Barnaby climbed into his black Volvo. "But that doesn't explain Belinda, or her mother. And why so much violence?"

Ben Jones thought it prudent not to question his boss as to the interaction between Inspector Troy and the suspect, but thought to himself that maybe it was just as well that the former sergeant had moved on from Midsomer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

**.**

The sun had risen on a bright, though chilly, morning, and James Ashby-Petherington parked his red Aston Martin at the top of the lane that led to his friend's house, as usual. This visit, however, was not expected.

"Oh, hello," said Horatio, opening the door after some insistent bell-pushing from James. He was wearing only a bath-towel round his waist. "What are you doing here today?"

"I've come to tell you," said James angrily, "that I don't want another woman to touch you." He was aware that his face was as flushed as ever.

Horatio laughed. "Another woman? You aren't talking about Belinda again, are you? Didn't you know that she's been for the chop as well? There's some nutcase loose in this village."

"Of course I know," said James. "It was in the _Causton Echo_. But I saw those women in the club pawing at you." James stuck his hands in his pockets and looked defiant. In moments of great stress, his stammer miraculously left him.

"Look, Jimmy," said Horatio, who had still not opened the door wide enough to let him in, "now isn't a good time, you know?"

"Why? Have you got a woman in there?" James tried hard to look inside.

"Don't be daft. I'm washing my knickers."

"Oh." James couldn't think of what to say next. "Well — even if you are washing your knickers —" and he now realized that there was indeed the steady hum of a washing machine in operation in the background.

"Besides which, I've got to be at Aunt Phyllis' place by ten-thirty. She wants me to shift some satsumas."

"Right-oh." James turned as if to leave and then turned back. "Because if you do get involved with another woman, this time I'll kill you."

...

...

...

"So Rosemary Bellinger was connected with Phyllis Potts, was she?" asked Jones. He and Barnaby were sitting in the Volvo, about to move off in the direction of 'The Manor House', Midsomer Florey.

"Apparently so. Rosemary Bellinger is dead, but Phyllis Potts is not." Barnaby's mobile buzzed again. "Barnaby!" he shouted. "Where? ― When? ― 'The Hollies', Midsomer Magna? OK. we're on our way," and he snapped his mobile shut.

...

...

...

Sandra Crawley, dressed in a pale pink two-piece suit and sporting several golden rings on her fingers, met them at the door. "I just went in and found him there," she said.

"Where?"

"In the garage," and she led them round the corner of the substantial modern bungalow. At first Barnaby could see nothing except the shiny grey Porsche and the white-clad figure of George Bullard. But at the back of the garage was a man, suspended by his neck from a metal beam below the ceiling, clearly dead.

"Oh, God!" said Jones and turned away.

"In case you're wondering, definitely suicide this time," said George jovially. "Neck dislocated at the third and fifth vertebrae. Must have been quick."

"Jones, will you take Mrs Crawley inside the house?" asked Barnaby. "Cut him down, George!"

...

...

...

"I can't say I ever liked him," said Sandra Crawley, who had sat herself down on the leather settee in the large living-room. "I married him ― yes ― but that was a long time ago. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Jones declined. "Can you think of any reason why your husband would commit suicide?" he asked.

"Not really. Though he had been acting oddly lately."

"Oddly?"

"Furtively. He seemed to be afraid of something."

"And ― you don't know what?"

"No, but it was to do with money, which is strange because we've got pots of it. Kept saying last night that we must sell the Porsche. Over my dead body, I told him. Oh ― sorry," Sandra realized that she had said something inappropriate.

"At what time did you find your husband in the garage?"

"About half past eleven ― twelve. I was about to go out to Waitrose. He left about eight o'clock this morning to go to work as usual ― or so I thought. Gave me the fright of my life to see him hanging there, I can tell you." Mrs Crawley seemed remarkably composed under the circumstances.

"And apart from seeming ― furtive, is there nothing else you can tell me about his recent movements ― anything that seemed ― out of character?"

"No," said Sandra. "But now you mention it, he did seemed depressed last night. Finished off the Glenmorangie before dinner! He said 'Sandra, this is it,' and he brought home a great big file from the office, too. He's never done that before. I always made it clear that he shouldn't mix home with the office. He's ― he was ― an Officer with the Council, you know."

"A great big file? What sort of file?"

Sandra got up and sauntered over to an 18th Century French desk by the window. "I believe this is it," and she handed Jones an expanding wallet tied up with pink ribbon. Jones undid the ribbon and extracted five large sheets of paper that had been folded several times to fit into the wallet. They appeared to be architectural drawings. "And he kept muttering some name," she added.

"Name? What name?"

"Let me see." Sandra put one hand to her forehead. "Ashford ― Ashford-Partington ― some silly name like that. It was a double-barrel name."

"Ashby-Petherington," said Barnaby, who had entered from the hallway.

"That's it!" said Sandra. "Are you sure you won't have a cup of tea?"

...

...

...

"This looks like the Taj Mahal, sir," said Jones once they had regained the Volvo.

"An extremely elaborate building indeed," said Barnaby, trying to open up one of the enormous sheets and finding he couldn't do so in the space available without suffocating Jones. "The scale is much bigger than could ever be built in or near Causton."

"I see it's called..." ― leaning over Barnaby's lap Jones was just able to make out the name on the bottom right-hand corner of the sheet ― "_Paradise. _Where the hell is that?"

"Oh, yes." Tom bent down to scrutinise the inscription. "Paradise. Midsomer. Copyright Causton Borough Council. Just that."

"Paradise? What sort of a name is that?" asked Ben as he straightened up.

"Right, I'll drive you back to the station, and you go on to Midsomer Florey. Try to find out what Hector Ashby-Petherington knew about the Smiths and what he has to do with these plans. I'll go to the Town Hall to speak with the Leader of the Council about Crawley."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

**.**

Passing the pair of snarling guardian stone lions, Ben Jones mounted the wide steps up to the elaborately-studded oak-panelled door of The Manor House and pulled the bell, which jangled in the distance. The door was opened by a pasty-faced young woman wearing a black uniform and white apron. "Please?" she asked.

"I'd like to speak to Sir Hector... Ashby-... Petherington," said Jones, peering at his notes. Under his arm he was carrying the elasticated document wallet done up with pink ribbon.

"Only by appointment," said the pasty-faced young woman firmly.

"Oh ― I'm Detective Sergeant Jones, from Causton C.I.D.," said Ben with a disarming smile, producing his warrant card.

"One moment please." Marta did not react to his disarming smile but disappeared from view, leaving Ben to contemplate the heads of bears and foxes looking down at him from a great height in the spacious stone-flagged hall to which he had been conditionally admitted. A minute or two later she returned and said "this way, please". She led him to a large drawing-room, at the far end of which sat Sir Hector behind an oversized desk, apparently absorbed in the _Investor's Chronicle_.

"Yers," he said absently.

"I'm grateful for your time, Sir Hector. I am DS Jones from Causton C.I.D. and I am investigating four deaths."

"_Four?" _Sir Hector put down the _Investor's Chronicle _and peered at Ben Jones over half-moon spectacles. "I'm afraid I'm not with you."

"Four or five," said Jones.

"Well, don't you know how many, man?" asked Hector testily.

"Four murders and one probable suicide." Ben was not prepared to accept without question George Bullard's cheery assurance that the last death had certainly been self-inflicted.

"What have they got to do with me?" Hector looked a bit puzzled.

Jones did not reply but untied the pink ribbon on the elasticated wallet. "Have you ever seen these, Sir Hector?" and he passed the five sheets of architectural drawings across the desk to Hector, who unfolded them one by one and studied them carefully.

"Never set eyes on them," he said decisively.

"And yet your name was mentioned," said Jones, "by the widow of Gareth Crawley."

"_Widow?" _Hector looked up abruptly, seemingly shocked.

"Mr Crawley was found by his wife hanging from a beam in his garage this morning," said Ben, watching Sir Hector closely.

Hector's face went through a series of expressions ― surprise, fury, pity, and finally a sort of cold disdain. "I never knew the man," he said finally.

"And she also mentioned," added Jones, taking the liberty of somewhat embellishing the truth, "a certain Andrew and Jane Smith, both of whom, as I am sure you must be aware, were most definitely murdered. She suggested that you knew them."

"She can't have!" exclaimed Hector and then, realizing that he had made an inadvertent admission of association, bellowed at the top of his voice "Marta! ― _Marta!_"

"Please don't leave the village until we have finished our investigations, Sir Hector," said Jones, retreating before the pasty-faced housekeeper could eject him bodily, but not before retrieving the architectural plans of 'Paradise' from Sir Hector's desk.

...

...

...

"What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?" Trevor Whitby asked pleasantly. He was a forty-something man with some girth and silver hair, but he still exuded that energetic confidence typical of local politicians. The Leader of Causton Borough Council had been elected three times running almost unopposed, given the innate conservatism of the majority of the residents of Causton and its environs.

"I expect you have heard of the unfortunate death of Mr Gareth Crawley," began Tom Barnaby.

"Ah, yes ― shocking business, shocking," said Trevor. "We knew he was in trouble ― but we never thought he would do something like this."

"What sort of trouble, sir?"

"Well ― how shall I put it?" Trevor Whitby put the tips of his fingers together. "He wasn't exactly _straightforward_."

"You mean he was dishonest."

Trevor scratched the side of his cheek hard. "Could we just say that ― we knew he was susceptible. To inducements," and he smiled blandly. "He was not known as Crawler Crawley for nothing."

"Do you know anything about the proposal for a very large building called, I believe, 'Paradise'?

"Of course I do! It's the Potts place in Midsomer Florey."

"You mean the nursery on Primrose Lane?"

"Exactly. Crawley had some half-baked idea about building that thing there ― have you seen the plans?"

"I have," said Tom.

"I mean, it's absurd. It would be vulgar in Beverly Hills!"

"It certainly is on an extremely large scale, sir," admitted Barnaby.

"Fifteen bedrooms and two swimming pools! I ask you. But the Potts site was the only one round about ― and I gather it had to be in or near Midsomer Florey ― that was large enough to build it. Without knocking down a neighbouring village," and Trevor laughed nervously.

"But Mrs Potts owns that land, doesn't she?"

"Oh, yes. Crawley said all that would be taken care of. Now look, Chief Inspector," and he leaned forward earnestly, "I'm not saying I did anything wrong. I didn't. But I suspected ― just suspected ― that Crawley was going to steam-roller that building through, come what may."

"Are you telling me that you think that Mr Crawley was bribed to push these plans through?"

Trevor Whitby leaned back in his chair. "Bribe is such a strong word, Inspector," he said.

"But surely there are procedures that have to be gone through ― a consultation process and so on."

"Oh, there are, there are. All that has been done by the book, and the Case Officer has recommended refusal."

"And in your position ― if you suspected corruption, was it not your duty to investigate the matter?"

Whitby rubbed his chin vigorously. "It would have been, of course," he said. "But where was the evidence? It hasn't gone to the Planning Committee yet."

"And with Mr Crawley's death I suppose it won't?"

Trevor Whitby pulled at the lobe of his right ear. "No, it won't. Crawley was the only one pushing for it. And in his position he could probably have swung the vote in favour. Now it's ― dead in the water. If you'll excuse the expression!" and he gave his nervous laugh again.

"And was it Mrs Potts who was the applicant for this proposal?" asked Barnaby.

"Oh, no!" said Trevor. "Didn't you know? It was Hector Ashby-Petherington."

...

...

...

Tom was walking towards his car when his phone buzzed in his pocket again. "Barnaby," he said mechanically.

"Sir!" said an excited Gavin Troy. "I've remembered something else that that leather bloke said ― the one that assaulted me."

"Yes?"

"He said something like 'Contact wants the stuff out of there. If you can't do it I will.' "

"Did he indeed?"

"Doesn't make much sense to me, sir, but I thought I should tell you, all the same."

"It's just possible, Troy, that you have overheard something of great significance. I'm very glad you went to that place on Wednesday evening, very glad indeed." Tom returned his phone to his trouser pocket with an air of self-satisfaction, which was an emotion that Gavin did not share.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

**.**

When Arthur McCain dismounted from his bicycle and chained it to the railing at five past twelve, he noticed that the window beside the entrance of the _Cock and Trumpet _had a large hand-written sign on it, stuck on with Sellotape. It read : BAR PERSON WANTED. MUST BE FLEXIBLE AND ABLE TO WORK LATE HOURS. APPLY WITHIN.

Phil Bryce was not his usual cheerful self and Arthur guessed that it was not only because he had lost a barmaid. He was poring over a rectangular tin on the counter.

"Crackers!" said Arthur, noticing the emblem on the lid.

"You're crackers," said Phil gloomily. "This is all I have to remember her by," and he extracted a few trinkets ― a gaudy necklace, false pearl earrings and a sparkly bracelet. "She used to wear these."

"Aye, she did," said Arthur, who seemed almost as touched by the tawdry display as the publican. "You were fond of her, weren't you, Phil?"

"How d'you know tha'?"

"Oh, I know, I know," said the old man gently. "We're the same ― she meant a lot to you and she meant a lot to me."

"How do you mean ― to you?" Phil looked blankly at the old man.

"Police let you have that tin, did they?" asked Arthur, changing the subject.

"They didn' objact ― well, they never knew, actually. I found 'er, see, I found 'er."

"_A thousand souls to death and deadly night_," said Arthur contemplatively, suddenly reverting to his enigmatic self.

"You're not starting all that again, are you?" asked Phil. "Isn't one body enough for you?"

"One? There were four at least... perhaps more."

"For God's sake, Arthur, you haven't even had a drink yet!" and Phil Bryce started to pull mechanically at the handle of the pump of the mild, which gave forth a frothy spattering and then ran dry. "Damn thing!" he said, "gotta change the barrel. Won't be two ticks, Arthur."

As soon as the landlord had disappeared down the narrow wooden steps to the cellar Arthur rummaged thoughtfully in the tin of tawdry jewellery. His eyes were moist. At the bottom of the tin was an old letter, folded up. He picked it up and started to read it. _'Dear Rose,' _he read. _'Thanks so much for the little party on the 5__th__. We had such fun letting off those fireworks, didn't we? We are looking forward to moving into our new house __―__ Hector promises us it will be in or near Midsomer Florey, so it'll be easier to visit you! He's arranging everything. It will be a real palace, Rose! You may wonder how we can afford it. The laugh is that we've been bleeding__―" _Arthur quickly put the letter into his trouser pocket, hearing the wooden stairs creak as Phil Bryce made his return.

Most unusually for him, Arthur only had one pint of mild and bitter that day and left the pub ten minutes later.

...

...

...

The young man sitting on the bus stop bench in the centre of Causton was playing idly with the zip of his back-pack, which he had dumped on the ground beside him. Troy looked at his watch. Seven twenty. He knew that the last coach from Oxford to Middlesbrough left at eight o'clock and that he would have to get the next local bus to connect with it. The sunny day had given way to a night of penetrating cold. He yawned and stretched out. He had written what he thought was a nice letter to Joyce and Tom, thanking them profusely for their hospitality, and left it on the kitchen worktop, where Joyce would probably see it first. He hadn't had the courage to tell them in person that he was leaving, but he knew in his heart that he had to get back to face the music and that he had spent too long in the pleasant county of his youth. Yes, Tom had said that he could help with this axe-butcher investigation, but he didn't feel that he had got very far. An axe, an axe... and it hadn't been found. He got up to look at the timetable attached to the bus-stop pole. Every twenty minutes and the next one would not be due until twenty-five to eight. Time for a quick pint, he thought.

Gavin picked up his back-pack and walked across to the pub on the other side of the square.

...

...

...

"I don't know what you'd want here at this hour of night," said the taxi-driver morosely as he dropped off Gavin Troy at the entrance to the Primrose Lane nursery. Gavin was not quite sure what he wanted here either, but after six pints in Causton it had seemed like a good idea. No hope of getting home tonight ― or of going back to Tom's place, for that matter. Perhaps never again, after that letter.

The entrance to the Potts estate was of course locked. Troy started walking, in a somewhat erratic line, around the perimeter of the enormous glass structure. In fact, an idea _had _occurred to him and he had made up his mind, there and then, to do something about it. He would prove to Tom Barnaby that he really was a good detective after all. He might not have been given much information about this case, but if there was one thing he could do...

"Bugger!" he said out loud as he tripped over a log of wood. He sat down on the log of wood and shuffled off his back-pack. He surveyed the wall of glass, running several hundred yards in one direction. He thought he could see... yes, there was an opening further down. A pane of glass just above head height was open at a twenty-degree angle, leaning outwards from the base, presumably for natural ventilation. He approached it cautiously. Reaching up with both arms he put his full weight on the frame of the glass pane and lifted himself off the ground, as if he was exercising on the bars. There was an ominous crack and the frame came away at one corner. Encouraged, Gavin did a few more lifts until eventually the pane of glass was torn down completely, though it never actually came away from the rest of the structure. Miraculously, no glass had been broken. The opening was now wide enough for Troy's body, though he still had to elevate himself at least six feet in order to get in.

He considered the situation. He looked back to the log which he had previously sat on. The log was neatly sawed, or chopped, into a length of nearly six feet and if he propped it up at an angle against the glass wall... five minutes later Troy was inside the nursery, having thrown his back-pack in first. He landed with a thud on a soil bed between two leafy orange trees. This winded Gavin, but he soon recovered. The effects of the six pints had not completely dulled his desire to follow his hunch. It must be here somewhere, he thought, but where? Row after row of citrus trees in every direction... it must be in a shed somewhere, he thought. Recovering his back-pack, he stumbled around none too steadily. He came into a clearing of gravel and, in the centre of it, he thought he could make out a shed. It was evidently derelict as it was missing one side. He walked towards it and steadied himself by leaning against a corroded old ewer which was standing beside a stone bench. To his surprise the ewer toppled over and hit the stone bench, making a loud clanging sound. "Bugger!" he said again, but to himself this time.

He looked inside the shed. There was nothing there. Looking up, he saw that a light had come on in the distance. Better hide in here for a bit, thought Troy. The temple was of course no protection, but Gavin could not see anywhere else to hide, so he waited, hoping that the danger would pass. Then he saw the wandering beam of a torch coming towards him. _Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, _as a figure in a black cloak advanced across the gravel, holding a garden rake in one hand. He could not make out the face, as the beam of light was shone directly in his eyes.

"I ― er, ― um," began Troy, having cleared his throat but not his mind. He saw rather than felt the tines of the rake being shoved into his lower abdomen. "No!" he mouthed as he looked up at the creature in black, which now quietly moved away and out of sight. He fell down on the gravel, knocking his head against the stone bench. He still felt no pain, though he could see the garden rake sticking out of his side at a grotesque angle. He put one hand to his wounds and brought it up to his face. Blood. With his other hand he felt for the back pocket of his trousers. His police training kicked in. Before he passed out he managed to make a trace call.

...

...

...

The duty officer at Causton Police Station jolted himself awake and rubbed his eyes. A trace call. Finally. He had been trained on the machine ages ago, but they had never had to use it. On the rare occasions that an officer got involved in a fight in Midsomer it was normally the landlord of a pub that called the station. He scrolled down the screen for the officer information. In great surprise he picked up the phone.

"Barnaby," answered a sleepy Barnaby eventually.

"Sir, I just thought you would want to know... we've had an emergency call from DI Troy."

"Where?" asked Barnaby, sitting up in bed.

...

...

...

By the time Barnaby arrived at the nursery the ambulance was there with its flashing lights and two paramedics were attending to Troy. Ben Jones, who had also been summoned, was sketching the place where Gavin lay, indicating his position in relation to the temple. Two uniformed policemen had rigged up bright lights. Tom took in the scene and shook his head. There was something wrong about this and it wasn't that Troy was here when he should have been in Middlesbrough. It wasn't even the fact that he had been attacked that was troubling Tom, though that was bad enough. It just didn't feel right.

He walked over to his fallen comrade, who was having painkillers administered via a cannula in his right wrist.

"Too dangerous to try to take the rake out," said one of the paramedics, "he'll have to have emergency surgery."

"Gavin, can you hear me?" Tom bent over the prostrate victim, who fluttered his eyelashes in response. His lips were trying to form some words, so Tom bent down even more, turning his face so that his ear was close to Gavin's mouth.

"The axe...," Gavin was saying. "Couldn't find the axe..." and he drifted off.

Tom straightened up as the now unconscious Gavin was loaded onto a stretcher and thence into the ambulance, while the other paramedic held the rake up at the angle it had entered his body, to prevent further damage.

While the uniformed officers and Jones continued with their business, Tom Barnaby walked up to Mrs Potts' house and rang the bell. He rang and rang, but there was no reply.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

**.**

Feeling rather the worse for wear owing to a shortage of sleep, Barnaby rang the bell of Arthur's secluded house, determined that this time he would have no nonsense from the beer-swilling academic. Arthur had left him a cryptic note, reading _'Seek, and ye shall find. Tomorrow morning at 9.30?'_

"Good morning, Inspector," said Arthur McCain, with none of his usual dramatics. He appeared to be stone-cold sober.

"Mr McCain, I can't waste much time, I'm afraid. A very good friend of mine, an Inspector in fact, was seriously wounded at Mrs Potts' nursery last night. Perhaps you have some information to give me on the subject?"

Arthur McCain led Tom into his book-lined sitting-room without a word. He expansively offered Tom a seat on the dusty sofa.

"I have a confession to make," said Arthur very seriously. He was standing before Tom like a prisoner before a judge.

"Well?"

"You say that a great friend of yours, an Inspector, was wounded last night at Potty Potts' nursery?"

"Yes."

"I am responsible." Arthur drew his right hand up to his left nipple, as if to place his hand on his heart.

"You? Why?"

"Inspector Barnaby, there are things about this case that you do not understand."

"I certainly do not!" said Barnaby. "Because nobody, especially you, Mr McCain, will tell me what they know."

"I wish to make amends for that," said Arthur, and proceeded to sit down on a small pouffe which he drew up so as to be opposite the Inspector. "I believe that your Inspector was searching for the truth, but that he did not find."

"That may be so," said Tom crossly. "Please stop talking to me in riddles. I am very, very tired of them. What exactly do you know?"

Arthur McCain brought his hands together as if in prayer and looked at the ground. "There are at least four people that have been murdered recently, are there not?"

"What do you know of them, Mr McCain?"

"I warned you ― or I tried to warn you. I warned you about the brawl between the red rose and the white."

"Yes, Shakespeare, Henry the Sixth, Part One. What has that got to do with this case?"

"I don't know how well you know your British history, Inspector, but the red rose symbolized the House of Lancaster and the white rose the House of York. They fought for a hundred years, or thereabouts, for the throne of England, but both of them traced their ancestry back to a single source, King Edward the Third. In other words, it was like one large family falling out, only a lot of people died in the process. When members of one family fall out the results can be deadly. As, I am afraid, has happened here."

"But how does this concern one family? How are you connected?" asked Barnaby, none too pleased to have been taught English history as well as Shakespeare.

"Ah." Arthur gave a sad little sigh. "Why do you think I used to drink every day in the _Cock and Trumpet_?"

"Because you ― like your drink, sir," said Tom, avoiding saying that he was an alcoholic.

"Oh, I do, I do. But that barmaid who was killed ― Belinda, she was called."

"Yes?"

"You see, I was her father. She never knew who I was, but I liked to go there to see her. Rosemary ― yes, I had a fling with Rosemary many years ago, but when she met Bertie Bellinger that was it. Bertie was much younger than me, and much more handsome. They were married before Belinda was born, and I agreed that I would never see Rosemary again."

"So you ― Arthur ― are in fact grieving?" Tom's tone was gentle.

"I've been grieving a long time. Drink's the thing, but it only goes so far."

"Perhaps I have misjudged you," said Tom. "However, you have not explained how you came to to attack Inspector Troy, or how Mrs Potts is involved in this business."

"I did not say," said Arthur, "that I had attacked Inspector Troy. I am sorry if he has been wounded. I said only that I was _responsible_."

"How so ― sir?"

"Inspector, in this family quarrel, and I do assure you it has to do with a family quarrel, I do not wish to take sides. I only wish to assist ― to the extent that that is possible ― from behind the scenes."

"Couldn't you assist a bit more? Humour me," said Tom, aware that he was striking a somewhat banal note.

Arthur McCain stood up again. "At what time does your post usually arrive, Inspector?" he asked.

"About now, usually. Why?"

"When you get home, Inspector, you will find another letter delivered to your address. I can say no more. When you read this letter, I believe that you will have in your hands the information you need to bring this matter to a conclusion. And stop the deaths," he added.

"But surely ―" Tom also got up, but felt that Arthur was playing a trick on him again, "surely, now that I am here, in person, you can tell me..."

"Go," said Arthur McCain, his histrionic voice returning, "Go, and I hope to hear better news in the future of Inspector Troy!"

Tom felt he had no option but to go, but he left with his mind in a turmoil, annoyed that the elderly soothsayer had so effectively managed the interview and determined exactly how much information he should give.

...

...

...

Tom Barnaby and Ben Jones drew up in the black Volvo outside Mrs Potts' nursery shortly after eleven o'clock. There was nobody at the entrance and very few people were about at all. There was some conversation audible in the centre of the citrus maze, and Barnaby led the way purposefully towards the Zen garden. Mrs Potts was drinking tea from a china cup, sitting on the stone bench by the little wooden temple, and her nephew was happily weeding under some nearby orange trees with a hoe. Jones carried the expanding wallet tied up with pink ribbon under his arm.

"Mrs Potts!" called Tom amiably.

"Inspector Barnaby!" Mrs Potts lifted her tea-cup high in the air in salutation. "You've come back to our little haven of rest."

"Indeed I have," said Barnaby, "though it was not such a haven of rest last night, was it?"

"Last night?" Mrs Potts put her tea-cup back in its saucer and looked defensive.

"There was quite a hullabaloo at about two in the morning, I think."

"Oh," said Phyllis after a moment. "You know about that."

"I was here ― with paramedics and colleagues."

"_You _were here? Oh." Mrs Potts looked confused. "There was a burglar, you see―"

"A burglar, yes. Detective Inspector Troy of Northumbria Police. He is seriously ill in Causton General Hospital at the moment, having suffered a punctured intestine as the result of being bayoneted with a garden rake... by _you._"

"A ― an Inspector, you say?" Mrs Potts blinked rapidly.

"Auntie?" Horatio had temporarily stopped his weeding.

"I didn't know he was a policeman. He looked like a burglar to me. He was trespassing, in the middle of the night. I heard a terrible crash coming from my Zen garden, so I hurried here. I think he was _drunk_."

"So you nearly killed him?"

"But that's not a crime ― I mean, protecting one's own property..."

"That's what I thought was wrong," continued Tom. "With police lights and all the commotion going on all around the poor man, why had Phyllis Potts, who lives on the premises, not come out to see what was going on? And why did she then not answer the door when I rang the bell, several times?" He paused. "Because you had just attacked him."

"You're not going to charge me with assault, are you?" Mrs Potts sounded genuinely frightened.

Tom Barnaby did not answer but looked at Ben Jones, who undid the expanding wallet and drew out the architectural plans.

"Do you know what these are?" asked the sergeant, handing them to the now discomfited Phyllis Potts.

She looked at them and handed them back almost at once. "They're the plans of that ridiculous man in the manor-house," she said, "Hector Ashby-Petherington. He wants to build that monstrosity here, on my land. Over my dead body, I told him." Anger had by now displaced fright in her voice. "This land has been in my family for well over a hundred years. And I'm not going to part with it for a scheming toffee-nosed bully like him, however much money he offers me."

"Perhaps you should have accepted his money, Mrs Potts. Because you were running short of it, weren't you, and it was threatening to ruin your business?" Barnaby stared steadily at Phyllis Potts as he withdrew from his jacket pocket the letter that Arthur McCain had so mysteriously had delivered to him earlier that morning and started to read. "_'The laugh is that we've been bleeding Potty Potts dry for months now! Thank you for letting us in on the secret about the poisoned oranges! If she doesn't pay up it's the end of her business because we're going public. See you on Sunday as usual.' _This letter was from Jane Smith, butchered to death a week ago, to her old school-friend Rosemary Bellinger, also now unfortunately dead." Mrs Potts appeared to flinch at the name of Rosemary Bellinger. "Jane and Andrew Smith were partners in crime, running a drugs racket in Causton. They got over-ambitious and wanted to move into a vast palace of a place, called 'Paradise', I believe, to be built here on this very site."

"But I didn't know that!" Mrs Potts stood up and realized that she had made an involuntary admission.

"What didn't you know, Mrs Potts?" asked Jones.

She sank back down on the stone bench. "It's true. It's shameful, but it's true. They were blackmailing me. But I didn't know that Hector wanted this land for _them_."

"Why don't you tell us all about it?" asked Barnaby.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**.**

Phyllis Potts rose and drew herself up majestically to her full height of four feet ten. "I should tell you," she began composedly, "that I am not really Mrs Potts. I am of the Potts family, but I never married. _'Mrs Potts' _looked better on the jars of marmalade and they sold well." She now gazed into the middle distance, a bit like Greta Garbo, and proceeded. "My great-great-grandfather was Eustace Ignatius Potts, the founder of this nursery and the business. He was a visionary. He realized that, given adequate warmth and light and the right growing conditions, and based on strict organic principles and practice, citrus fruit could grow as easily in Midsomer as in the Mediterranean. He it was who bought this land and laid out this nursery. He even created this little Zen garden, having travelled extensively in the Far East. He erected this temple ― well, not this one, that succumbed to rot many years ago. It was also Eustace Ignatius who perfected the secret recipe for Potts' Original Thick-cut Marmalade, the recipe that I still use today. Only a few people know the secret, and they are all within the family."

"Including ― Rosemary Bellinger?" ventured Barnaby.

"Rose was an old friend and a distant cousin, but we were descended from the same stock. We quarrelled one day. We were taking tea, here, in this very garden, when Rose said that great-great-grandfather Potts was in fact a charlatan. She alleged that he made his money by selling quack remedies, picked up in China and Japan. Ground tigers' teeth and that sort of thing. It was after that that the killings began. But yes, she knew the secret. She _betrayed _me." She snarled, sounding rather like a tigress herself. "She told those wretched people, the Smiths."

"Who were both found hacked to death with their heads cut off," interpolated Ben Jones. "Significant, wouldn't you say, _Miss _Potts?"

"I had one of those oranges tested," said Tom, "I mean one of the oranges Joyce and I bought the other day. It is full of organophosphates. And these pesticides were found in the system of Andrew Smith."

"They're all legal," said Phyllis.

"Only just," said Jones. "Some of them are banned in this country. Not very organic, are they, Miss Potts?"

"I also had a jar of your Original Thick-cut Marmalade analysed for chemicals," continued Barnaby. "It appears that it is on the very borderline of dangerous toxicity. My pathologist has told me that the chief chemical present is a pesticide called Parathion. Parathion is capable of acute poisoning leading to death if ingested in large enough quantities. It smells slightly of garlic."

"How do you think the marmalade tastes so good?" snapped Phyllis. "Parathion gives it its special unique flavour. _That _was the secret."

"And so you killed the people who were threatening to reveal your secret," said Jones.

"Killed them? No," said Phyllis, "I don't know how they died."

"But you do, don't you, Horatio?" Barnaby turned smugly towards the young man, who had been leaning on his hoe as if lost in admiration of his aunt's recitation. Horatio looked startled, his eyes darting from Tom to Ben and from Ben to Phyllis.

"Horatio?" Phyllis looked at him enquiringly.

"I remembered the words your aunt used when she introduced us to you. _'I don't know what I'd do without Horatio,' _she said. _'He does all the heavy work for me'._"

Horatio lifted the hoe high above his head and was about to plant the blade forcefully between Barnaby's shoulder-blades when he was seized from behind by Jones, who brought him to the ground in an arm-lock and successfully snapped handcuffs on his wrists. "Horatio Potts, you are under arrest for the suspected murder of Rosemary and Belinda Bellinger and of Andrew and Jane Smith," said Jones, with his knee in the small of the suspect's back.

"We have some talking to do at the station, Mr Potts," said Barnaby.

"You stupid, stupid boy!" Phyllis now raised her voice. "I said _get rid _of them. I didn't want you to _kill _them."

"As for you, Miss Potts," Barnaby addressed the distraught lady, "you will be charged with attempted murder."

Phyllis Potts sank back down on the little stone bench and broke into heart-felt sobbing. "What will become of my nursery? My nursery? Oh, Eustace Ignatius!" she wailed.

At that moment the sound of excited chattering in a foreign tongue drifted into the Zen garden from the direction of the entrance to the nursery. "Oh, no!" moaned Phyllis, "It's the Japanese again!"

...

...

...

Barnaby looked across the desk at Horatio Potts. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that he was a violent murderer, or that he was capable of anything more extreme than body-building. "Let us start," he said, "with the evening that you visited Mrs Bellinger."

Horatio cleared his throat. "Rosemary was not my intended victim," he said. "She was collateral."

"Your intended victim, as you put it, was Jane Smith, was it not?"

"Yeah. Jane and Andrew, both of them. Auntie had said to get rid of them."

"And when she said _'get rid of them'_, did it never occur to you to ask her what she meant by that?"

"No need," said Horatio. "How else could I get rid of them? I knew they'd been bleeding Auntie dry. They were a nuisance and they had to be dealt with."

"Surely," said Tom, "the most logical step _―_to the extent that murder can be considered logical ― would have been to 'deal with them' in their own home?"

"I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Auntie got her supplies of insecticides from them. She doesn't know it, but some of the stuff is not legal in this country."

"I am well aware of that," said Tom coldly.

"I was the agent, the go-between if you like, between the Smiths and Aunt Phyllis. Aunt Phyllis never knew where it all came from. Take Carbaryl, for example."

Tom consulted an abbreviated list which George Bullard had helpfully provided him with. "Another pesticide, I see. It is illegal to import it into this country."

"Exactly. But Auntie used it on her fruit trees. I had a good business going on at the Smith place, and it wasn't just for pesticides. I thought there was a good chance that if Jane and Andrew were not killed on their own premises the business might continue, under another owner."

"Such as ― you, Mr Potts?"

"I don't know how you found out who Andrew was so quick. I went through all his pockets, but there must have been something else on him?" Horatio looked up but as Tom chose not to comment he went on. "I was hoping to have all the stuff moved before you got there. That was the deal. There's a lot of valuable goods in that place, you know."

"There _was_," said Tom. "We take a pride, Mr Potts, in outwitting criminals whenever possible."

Horatio looked down. "I knew that Jane visited Rosemary Bellinger every Sunday afternoon at half-past four. It was common knowledge. So I just ― dropped in for tea."

"With your aunt's axe," added Barnaby. "By the way, where is the axe now?"

"In my place. I slipped round the back of the Bellinger cottage before announcing myself and hid the axe in a holly bush by the back door. I was ever so helpful, making the tea and everything. Rosemary asked me to go upstairs to get one of her medicines _―_St John's Wort, I think. I brought down the Digoxin as well and tipped about eighty tablets into the teapot while I was in the kitchen."

"But why did you not leave the digitalis to do its work on Jane as well?"

Horatio folded his arms. "Rosemary had a heart condition and I was sure the Digoxin would finish her off. But I wasn't sure it would have a fatal effect on Jane. Besides, justice had to be done."

"Justice?"

"The Smiths had betrayed Auntie. Their deaths had to be proportionate."

Barnaby shuddered inwardly. "So you lured Jane outside―"

"_After _Rosemary had gone upstairs to lie down, saying she felt tired. In fact I gave her a strong sleeping tablet as well. I saw her to bed and Jane was about to go. She carried the tea things back into the kitchen and I pointed out the fireworks stands at the bottom of the garden that still hadn't been taken down after the November the Fifth celebrations. So Jane and I went out, as if we were going to dismantle them. She didn't get very far." Horatio seemed to be enjoying the chance to recount every detail of his horrific deeds.

"Andrew Smith?" Tom could see that Horatio's actions might take some time to explain.

"Andrew was more difficult. I arranged to meet him at the _Cock and Trumpet_ in Midsomer Florey at six o'clock. I said I had a business proposition to make to him. In fact, of course, I was offering to take over the business, but Andrew wanted too much money. I slipped quite a lot of Carbaryl into his drink while we were talking."

"One of the effects of Carbaryl," said Tom, consulting his notes, "when ingested in large enough quantities, is a drunken-like state."

"That was what I was counting on," said Horatio. "About half-an-hour later I said I had another date for dinner somewhere else, and promised to meet Andrew about nine o'clock in the pub again to seal the deal. I waited in the beer garden, certain that Andrew would eventually come outside, because he is a heavy smoker."

"And Phil Bryce, the landlord, noticed somebody staggering about around that time, the man whom you murdered, Andrew, though he did not know who he was." Barnaby gritted his teeth. "What about Belinda? How was she mixed up in all this?"

"Belinda found out too much. She read the letter that Jane had written to her mother, the one that mentioned the doped oranges. She tried to blackmail me. Me! As if she had some hold on me. We were an item once, but I got fed up with her. So I just called round."

Tom shivered, as if a cold breeze had suddenly blown over his spine. "And I suppose you know nothing about Gareth Crawley?"

"Who's he?" asked Horatio.

...

...

...

It had gone nine o'clock the next morning when Tom stumbled downstairs, having been aware for some time that Joyce had been banging about in the kitchen.

"I needed that sleep," he said, shuffling into his chair in front of a waiting bowl of Muesli.

"I know you did," said Joyce. "But you missed a call from the hospital."

"Really?" Tom looked up eagerly.

"It's Gavin. He's out of danger."

"Oh, thank God!" Tom looked genuinely relieved.

"The operation was successful, and now it's only a case of several days of recovery. I suppose he _could _stay here, couldn't he, Tom?"

"Well... yes... yes, I suppose he could. He's not really a bad detective, you know, Joyce."

"Of course he isn't," said Joyce, laughing. "We ought to go and visit him today."

"And we shall do," said Tom.

"But you missed a call from the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police as well. Gavin's been reinstated," called Joyce from the kitchen, where she had put two slices of bread into the toaster.

"Oh, that _is _good news," said Tom. "This calls for a celebration."

"And we can have it," said Joyce, returning with a jar in her hand. "My new batch of home-made marmalade!" and she triumphantly put the jar down in front of Tom.

"Joyce," said Tom very seriously, "I want you to throw that marmalade away."

"Throw it away? But there are twenty-four jars of it!"

"Nevertheless," said Tom, "it could be bad for us. I want you to _throw them all away_."

"But _T-o-m_!"

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**If you have enjoyed this little story, or have constructive criticisms to make, please be good enough to leave a Review – thanks!**


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